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THE    HOME    LIFE 


HENRY  W.LONGFELLOW, 


REMINISCENCES 

OF 

MANY   VISITS   AT    CAMBRIDGE    AND   NAHANT, 

DURING  THE   YEARS   1880,   1881  AND   1882. 


BY 

BLANCHE    ROOSEVELT    TUCKER-MACCHETTA. 


NEW     YORK: 

Copyright,   1882.  by 

G.    IV.    Carle  ton  &  Co.,  Publishers. 

LONDON  :     S.    LOW,    SON    &    CO. 
MDCCCLXXXII. 


Stereotyped  by 
SAMUEL  STODDER, 
ELEOTROTYPEII  &  STEREOTYPES, 
00  ANN  STREET,  N.  Y. 


TROW 

PRINTING  AND  BOOK-BINDING  Co. 
N.  Y. 


'5 


ZDeiricaticn. 

TO    GEORGE    I.     SENEY, 

A  TRUE   FRIEND,    AND  WISE    COUNSELOR, 

THIS,   MY  FIRST  WORK, 
IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED, 
IN    WARM    AND    GRATEFUL    REMEMBRANCE 


3O5577 


INTEODUOTIOK 


DURING  the  month  of  July,  1880,  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  spending  several  days  at  Nahant,  as  the 
guest  of  Henry  "W.  Longfellow,  and  at  his  suggestion, 
I  kept  the  journal  from  which  these  pages  have  been 
taken. 

Honored  with  the  poet's  friendship,  I  could  not 
but  appreciate  the  benefit  of  passing  much  time 
in  his  society,  and  seeing  him  in  the  home  circle, 
where  the  genuineness  of  his  nature  could  best  be 
understood.  For  nearly  three  years  I  had  been  in 
active  correspondence  with  him.  My  friends  ex 
pressed  so  much  curiosity  regarding  the  home  life  of 
so  great  a  man  that  the  idea  came  to  me  to  make  use 

[11] 


12  Introduction. 

of  my  journal  and  publish  a  book  of  Reminiscences. 
Having  thought  long  and  seriously  on  the  subject  I 
prepared  more  than  half  of  the  present  work,  and  on 
the  twenty-eighth  of  last  December,  in  response  to 
the  following  letter,  I  went  with  my  sister  to  Cam 
bridge,  where  we  spent  the  day  with  the  poet  : 


"  CAMBRIDGE,  December  Wh>  1881. 
"DEAR  PANDORA:*  —  I  have  just  received   your 
telegram  and  am  so  glad  you  are  coming,  and  so  sorry 
that  I  cannot  come  in  to  welcome  you.     Alas  !  I  am 
still  confined  to  the  house,  and  mostly  to  my  room. 

"  Please  come  and  see  me  to-morrow  forenoon  at 
eleven,  if  possible  ;  not  in  the  afternoon,  as  I  have  to 
sleep. 

"  How  delightful  it  will  be  to  see  you  again.  I 
wish  I  could  give  a  better  account  of  myself.  1  im 
prove  very,  very  slowly. 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW." 

Mr.  Longfellow  expressed  himself  as  very  much 
pleased  with  my  idea  and  what  I  had  done.  He  said 
we  would  call  the  work  "  Reminiscences  of  a  Poet's 

*  "Pandora"  was  the  title  with  which  the  Poet  usually 
addressed  me. 


Introduction.  13 


Home  Life."  He  corrected  with  his  own  hand  many 
lines,  and  made  many  suggestions.  I  wrote  them 
down  in  full.  He  reviewed  and  revised  all  that  was 
written  most  thoroughly,  and  remarked  on  the  chap 
ter  containing  his  personal  description  :  "  Why,  that 
is  my  portrait ;  nattered  certainly,  but  it  is  me,  and 
I  will  never  have  another  taken  better  than  that." 

He  rather  objected  to  the  description  of  his  visit 
to  Queen  Victoria,  but  finally  withdrew  his  opposi 
tion.  It  would  have  been  a  pity  to  overlook  so 
salient  a  point  in  his  character  of  an  American  poet. 
It  was  decided  that  I  should  bring  him  the  manu 
script  (the  last  six  chapters  were  only  sketched  out) 
in  its  entirety,  when  he  would  make  necessary  correc 
tions,  and  revise  it  completely. 

His  sudden  demise  hastened  the  appearance  of 
this  little  work.  My  husband  and  myself  dined 
with  Mr.  T.  G.  Appleton  the  evening  of  March  28th. 
I  then  read  to  him  the  entire  work,  receiving  at  the 
time  many  newer  suggestions  and  several  important 
facts  from  the  poet's  brother-in-law,  which  are  here 
incorporated. 

My  thanks  are  tendered  to  Mr.  T.  G.  and  Mr. 
Nathan  Appleton  for  their  kindly  interest  and  sug 
gestions,  and  to  Miss  Fannie  A.  Tucker. 


Introduction. 


The  book  pretends  to  claim  no  literary  merit ;  it 
is  merely  an  humble  and  affectionate  tribute,  not 
alone  to  the  great  poet,  but  to  the  cherished  friend. 

BLANCHE  ROOSEVELT  MACCHETTA. 
NEW  YORK,  April,  1882. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. —  Cambridge. — The  Home  of  the  Poet, 
II.  W.  Longfellow. — Entrance  to  his  House. — 
Longfellow  folloivs  the  Custom  of  the  Ancients. 
— Reception  by  the  Poet. ,+- Introduction  to  the 
famous  Study. — The  beauty  of  the  House. — 
The  Craigie  Mansion,  once  Washington's  Head 
quarters. — Lady  Washington's  Room.  —  The 
Portraits. — Tintoretto  and  David. — A  Re 
markable  Fire-place. — An  Old  Clock  on  the 
Stairs. — Luncheon,  and  Longfellow 's  Remarks 
on  Jules  Janin 19 

CHAPTER  II. — A  second  Visit  to  Cambridge. — De 
scription  of  the  Poet. — Longfellow  as  he  appears 
at  Seventy-four 43 

CHAPTER  III. — The  Promenade  on  the  Terrace. — 
Longfellow  will  call  Things  by  their  Right 

[15] 


1 6  Contents. 


Names. — Living  in  a  Yellow  House. — 

Visitor 's,  and  his  Reception  of  them. — An  Au 
tograph  for  a  Namesake. — His  last  Visit  to 
England. — His  Call  on  Her  Majesty  Queen 
Victoria. — The  Difference  in  Poets. — Long 
fellow  a  Poet  of  the  People. — The  Queen's 
Remark,  "  WJiy,  even  all  my  Servants  read 
your  Poems." — The  real  Dante. — Sketch  of  the 
Italian  Poet. — A  rare  Autograph  Album  .  48 

CHAPTER  IV. — Naliant.  —  The  Poets  Summer 
Home. — How  he  spends  his  Mornings. — Modest 
Interior  of  the  Poe£s  House. — A  well-bred  Gen 
tleman  living  in  quiet  Luxury. — His  Habits 
and  Correspondence. — His  Love  of  Fun  .  65 

CHAPTER  Y. — A  morning  Occupation. — The  Pro 
fessor  an  early  Riser. — The  Ceremony  used  by 
the  Family  towards  each  other. — A  Family 
Party  at  Table,  and  General  Conversation  on 
the  Terrace. — The  Poetfs  Letters. — His  Hand 
writing. — Accidental  Discovery  of  a  New 
Author. —  Unearthing  of  a  Poet. — Rubbish, 
and  my  Unfortunate  Remark. — Description  of 
the  Poets  Laugh 80 

CHAPTER  VI. — Longfellow  SpeaJ&s  of  Poetical  In 
fluence. — The  Works  he  never  Reads. — Sketch 
and  his  Opinion  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  the  French 
Poet. — "  A  God-given  Talent  put  to  lad  Uses." 
— Longfellow  not  Willing  to  lie  awake  at  Night 


Contents.  17 


to  set  a  lad  Example   to  a  Class  of  thirty  the 
next  Morning  ..........       95 

CHAPTER  VII.  —  The  Poetfs  Appreciation  of  Paro- 
dies,  —  A  Household  Word.  —  "/  know  the 
Lines."  —  Dante  in  another  Form.  —  An  English 
Parody  on  Hiawatha  .......  108 

CHAPTER  VIII.  —  Longfellow  visits  Jules  Janin,  the 
French  Critic.  —  The  Impression  made  on  his 
Mind  ly  his  Mode  of  Living.  —  In  Doult  as 
to  an  old  Acquaintance.  —  Byron  and  Swin 
burne  ............ 


CHAPTER  IX.  —  Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild.  — 
Youth  and  Old  Age.  —  Sketch  of  the  Late  Victor 
Emmanuel,  King  of  Italy.  —  The  Poefs  Greet 
ing  to  his  Family  ........  130 

CHAPTER  X.  —  A  Drive  to  Lynn.  —  Mr.  Longfellow  's 
Love  of  the  Sea.  —  Where  he  Wrote  his  Poems 
"A  Secret  of  the  Sea  "  and  "  Pallingenesis."- 
The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion       ....     142 

CHAPTER  XI.  —  Longfellow1  s  Love  of  Flowers.  —  The 
Pink  Pond  Lily.  —  A  Poetic  Sketch.  —  An 
Honest  Opinion  .........  155 

CHAPTER  XII.  —  Longfellow  in  Conversation.  —  A 
Good  Listener.  —  Characteristic  Habits.  —  The 
Golden  Century.  —  The  Glory  of  the  Nine 
teenth  165 


1 8  Contents. 


CHAPTER  XIII. — A  Wedding  Anniversary. — The 
Real  Way  to  made  Fish  Chowder. — Poem, 
"  The  Bells  of  Lynn" 174: 

CHAPTER  XIV. — The  Evening  at  Nahant. — Long- 

fellow's  Love   of  Music. — Fond    of   Rossini. 

—Recitation    of    a   Favorite     Poem     l>y    the 

Poet 183 

CHAPTER  XV.— Talk  on  Potts.— Sketch,  Victor 
Hugo.— Longfellow  Wwhes  to  Shake  him  ly  the 
Hand 103 

CHAPTER  XVI. —  Visit  to  Cambridge  a  Year  later. 

— Christmas  Dinner  in  the  Craigie  Mansion. — 

Tales    of    a    Wayside    Inn. — All    Characters 

from  Life. — Portrait  of  The  Sicilian,  Luigi 

Monti 210 

CHAPTER  XVII. — My  Lost  Youth. — Pen  Portrait 
of  G.  W.  Greene. — The  Historian  and  Longfel 
low. — Friends  of  over  Three-score  Years. — 
The  Study  at  Cambridge,  in  Ihe  Lamplight. 
—Mr.  Longfellow  Speaks  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe  .  . 221 

CHAPTER  XVIII. — Looking  over  my  Journal. — My 
last  visit  to  Cambridge. — The  Poet  111  and 
Suffering. — Hoping  for  another  May  .  .237 

CHAPTER  XIX.— Ultima  Thule.—  The  last  Rest 
ing-place  of  the  great  Poet  245 


LONGFELLOW'S    HOME    LIFE, 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE   HOUSE   AT   CAMBRIDGE. 

'Once,  ah  !  once  within  these  walls, 
One,  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt." 

To  A  CHILD. 

Y  DEAR  MADAM  :  —  I  have  arranged  it  all, 
and    will    call    for    you    to-morrow   at 
eleven.     Excuse    my   coming   so   early, 
but  it  is  a  long  way  to  Cambridge,  and 
luncheon   is  usually  at  one  o'clock.     The  Poet  says 
he  will  be  charmed  to  sec  }ou.     In  haste. 
"  Votre  dcvoue, 

APPLETON." 


Such  is  the  substance  of  a  little  note  that  I  am 
continually  turning  over  and  over  in  my  hand.     As 

[19] 


2O  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

I  road  and  re-read  it  I  know  that  a  great  desire  of 
my  life  is  on  the  eve  of  realization.  I  am  going 
to  Cambridge.  Cambridge  is  the  home  of  a  poet, 
and  that  poet  is  Henry  Wadcworth  Longfel 
low. 

When  I  was  in  Paris,  in  the  Spring  of  '79,  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton, 
our  distinguished  compatriot,  who  had  come  to 
Europe  as  a  delegate  to  the  International  Congress, 
called  together  by  Count  Ferdinand  de  Lesseps, 
regarding  a  maritime  canal  across  the  American 
isthmus.  Mr.  Appleton  is  a  brother-in-law  of 
Mr.  Longfellow,  and  he  had  promised  to  present 
me  to  the  poet  if  ever  I  should  go  to  Boston.  1 
am  here  now,  and  this  little  note  is  the  agreeable 
result. 

The  hours  passed  slowly  till  the  following  morn 
ing,  and  only  as  we  drove  through  the  well-kept 
carriage-way  did  I  feel  that  my  time  of  probation 
was  ended.  Ascending  the  old-fashioned  steps,  we 
found  ourselves  on  the  porch  of  the  Craigie  Mansion. 
We  walked  towards  the  entrance,  and  to  my  amaze- 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  2 1 

ment  Mr.  Appleton  did  not  ring,  but   turned   the 
knob  softly,  saying, 

"  Longfellow  follows  the  custom  of  the  ancients. 
His  latch-string  is  ever  out."  Or,  I  interrupted, 

"  The  peasants  of  Normandy  in  the  reign  of  the 
Henrys.  'Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors, 
nor  bars  to  their  windows  ;  but  their  dwellings  were 
open  as  day  and  the  hearts  of  the  owners.' " 

We  entered  a  large  antechamber  which  re 
minded  me  of  the  small  chamber  in  the  Louvre  of 
Paris,  dedicated  to  the  Ycnus  of  Milo,  and,  in  fact, 
almost  the  first  object  my  eye  rested  upon  was  a 
copy  of  that  wondrous  work.  The  walls  were 
hung  with  plaques  and  pictures,  while  copies  and 
originals  in  ancient  sculpture  were  artistically 
placed  about.  In  one  corner,  on  a  high  pedestal, 
was  a  beautiful  head  in  white  marble  of  the  Eoman 
hero  Marcellus — a  copy  of  the  famous  bust  in  the 
antique  museum  in  Rome ;  it  is  so  well  done  as  to 
almost  rival  in  beauty  the  great  original. 

There  were  several  doors  to  this  apartment,  and 
one  at  the  farther  end  stood  open.  A  maid  came  for- 


22  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

ward,  and  Mr.  Appleton,  recognizing  her  with  a 
smile,  inquired  if  the  poet  were  visible.  She 
answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  showed  the  way 
through  a  richly-furnished  hall  to  his  study.  As 
our  advancing  footsteps  made  themselves  heard  the 
door  opened  and  Longfellow  stood  before  us. 

With  well-bred  civility,  he  acknowledged  Mr. 
Applcton's  introduction,  and  his  first  words  were 
calculated  to  set  me  at  my  ease.  The  apartment  in 
which  we  found  ourselves  was  very  large,  and  a 
huge  open  fire-place  occupied  considerable  space  at 
the  left  of  the  entrance.  The  morning  was  chilly, 
and  a  soft  fire  of  canncl  coal  intermingled  with  logs 
of  hickory  shot  a  cheerful  glow  up  into  the  wide 
chimney. 

While  the  poet  was  engaged  with  Mr.  Appleton, 
I  looked  around  and  examined  the  apartment  at  my 
fullest  leisure.  I  lost  no  time  in  concluding  that  I 
was  in  the  famous  study  of  the  poet,  and  what  a 
study ! 

The  room,  about  thirty  feet  square,  seemed  of 
more  ample  dimensions.  There  was  a  harmonious 


The  House  at   Cambridge  23 

blending  of  furniture,  walls,  books,  pictures  and 
statuary.  The  prevailing  tint  a  warm  Autumn 
brown — a  sympathetic  golden  that  comes  to  the 
leaves  in  October,  when,  fanned  by  the  western 
winds,  they  deepen  in  color  as  they  catch  the  glow 
of  a  fading  Summer's  sun. 

The  day  was  so  misty  without  that  it  threw 
in  bold  relief  the  exquisite  warmth  and  comfort 
within.  A  lire-light  cast  fitful  gleams  of  brightness 
on  the  russet  brown  of  the  carpet,  and  dimly  illu 
mined  even  the  farthermost  objects  in  the  apart 
ment.  I  was  absolutely  penetrated  with  the  atmo 
sphere  of  repose  and  poetry  of  this  wondrous  cham 
ber.  My  lips  moved  involuntarily,  and  I  spoke 
rather  than  thought  the  word, 

"  Simpatica"  The  poet's  voice  interrupted  my 
re very. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  pleased  with  my  study,  and 
have  divined  the  very  name  that  my  heart  so  long  has 
given  it.  Besides  being  comfortable,  there  is  one  cap 
ital  reason  why  it  should  be  called  sympathetic.  This 
was  Washington's  own  private  room  ;  and  where  my 


24  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

writing-desk    now    stands,   there    stood    his    table. 
These  walls,  lined  with  books,  also  shelved  his  lit 
erary  lore.     In  fact,  I  think  the  arrangement  of  the 
room  is  exactly  the  same  as  when  in  his  time." 
I  looked  around  and  said,  musingly : 


Once,  ah  !  once  within  these  walls, 
One,  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt." 


Thrilled  with  the  influence  of  the  past,  I  almost 
expected  to  see  the  desk  piled  with  maps  and  charts, 
and  the  paraphernalia  of  a  General's  budget.  In 
stead,  on  either  side  of  a  carved  portfolio  was  a 
mass  of  letters;  those  on  the  left  with  faces 
downward  were  answered  (so  the  poet  explained), 
those  on  the  right,  turned  upwards,  awaited  his  con 
venience  for  a  response.  A  beautiful  ink-stand 
attracted  my  attention. 

"It  belonged  to  Coleridge,"  said  Longfellow, 
simply. 

"  And  the  quills  ?"  1  asked,  referring  to  a  pack 
age  lying  beside  it. 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  25 

"  Belong  to  me,"  added  the  poet,  with  a  cunning 
smile. 

"  I  see,"  said  I,  laughing  lightly,  "  you  think, 
with  the  Earl  of  Dudley,  that  it  is  beneath  the 
dignity  of  a  gentleman  to  write  with  anything  but 
a  quill.  I  was  once  guilty  of  answering  an  invita 
tion  in  a  way  that  called  this  comment  down  on  my 
head.  His  lordship  explained  further,  that  in  the 
best  circles  of  England  it  is  considered  positively  a 
breach  of  etiquette  to  send  a  letter  written  with  a 
steel  pen." 

It  was  impossible  in  looking  around  the  room  not 
to  notice  the  many  rare  objects  that  adorned  it.  The 
bookcases  were  Parisian  and  magnificently  carved  ; 
all  that  is  valuable  in  ancient  and  modern  literature 
peeped  out  from  behind  the  glass,  and  in  one  was  a 
still  rarer  treasure — the  original  manuscript  of  all  the 
poet's  own  works.  On  a  beautiful  table  between  the 
windows  reposed  an  immense  volume  which  the 
poet  took  up  lovingly.  It  was  a  copy  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  printed  in  every  known  language  ;  a  most  val- 


26  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

liable  work  and  an  exquisite  testimonial  of  the  book 
binder's  art. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  perfect  likenesses  in 
crayon  of  Emerson,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  Charles 
Snirmer  and  Felton  ;  and  near  the  door  an  excellent 
likeness  of  the  poet  himself,  although  taken  many 
years  ago.  Opposite  his  desk  was  a  bust  of  General 
Green's  grandson,  G.  "W.  Green,  capable  historian 
and  Longfellow's  dear  friend.  Over  the  door  nearest 
the  window  were  two  portraits,  ancient,  yellow  and 
time- stained,  but  inestimable  in  value.  One  was 
George  Washington,  and  the  other,  Martha,  his  wife. 
An  orange-tree  stood  in  one  window ;  in  the  other  a 
high  desk  where  the  poet  used  often  to  write  stand 
ing,  and  by  the  fireside  was  the  already  famous  chil 
dren's  chair.  The  center-table  was  carelessly  laden 
with  choice  volumes.  I  picked  up  one  and  read 
"  The  Scarlet  Letter." 

"  What  a  wonderful  book,"  I  exclaimed. 

44  Yes,  in  truth  a  wonderful  book,"  responded 
Longfellow,  "  I  have  read  it  many  times,  and  think  it 
stands  pre-eminent  among  works  of  American  fiction. 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  27 


Hawthorne  was  my  dear  friend,  yet  I  speak  without 
prejudice." 

I  had  thought  that  this  room  held  all  that  was 
valuable  in  literature,  but  the  professor  laughingly 
opened  a  door  to  the  right,  disclosing  a  small  room, 
absolutely  filled  with  books}  pamphlets  and  papers. 
Here  are  hidden  some  of  his  most  valuable  works ; 
among  them  some  original  Bodonis,  which  marked 
the  first  great  era  in  the  art  of  Italian  printing.  This 
is  also  the  legitimate  home  of  the  copy  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer  which  was  on  the  table  by  accident  that  day. 

From  the  study  we  passed  into  Lady  Washington's 
parlor,  which  now  serves  as  a  morning-room.  An 
immense  oil  painting  representing  the  children  of  Sir 
William  Pepperill,  the  old  colonial  governor,  the 
figures  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  his  time,  lent  an 
added  charm  of  quaintness  to  the  apartment.  The  old- 
fashioned  simplicity  of  the  furniture  in  its  stately 
repose  seemed  almost  to  bespeak  the  presence  of  the 
"  First  lady  in  the  Land  "  as  she  was  then  called,  and 
even  a  quantity  of  modern  bric-a-brac  could  not 
entirely  dispel  the  idea. 


28  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

We  stopped  in  an  adjoining  antechamber  to 
admire  two  marvelous  works  of  art — one  a  David, 
his  own  picture  painted  by  himself,  the  other  a  Tin 
toretto,  the  head  of  a  Venetian  soldier.  To  one 
familiar  with  the  many  originals  in  the  galleries  of 
Venice,  it  was  easy  to  recognize  in  the  present  pic 
ture  one  of  the  painter's  master-pieces.  Longfellow 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  both  works,  and  pointed 
out  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur  the  salient  points, 
the  perfection  of  each  as  a  work  of  art,  yet  withal 
the  astonishing  difference  in  the  school  of  painting. 
Then  ensued  a  discussion  on  the  two  artists  and  their 
works. 

Tintoretto  seems  to  have  shown,  in  very  early 
youth,  a  decided  talent  for  painting.  He  first  com 
menced  decorating  the  walls  of  the  house,  and  all  the 
surrounding  objects  about  the  paternal  workshop 
were  covered  with  bold  drawings  of  heads  and  faces. 
His  good  father,  although  only  a  poor  dyer,  deter 
mined,  at  last,  to  give  the  lad  the  best  education 
that  his  means  would  permit.  Some  say  he  was 
born  in  1512,  others  in  1.517,  and  one  may  as  well 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  29 

accept  the  last  statement  as  the  first.     He  certainly 
was  born  about  that   time,   and   his  real  name  was 
Robust! — Jacobo  Robusti,  a  solid  Italian  cognomen, 
and  the  one  that  decorated  the  gilded  sign  over  his 
father's   workshop    in    far-famed    Venice — already 
the  birth-place  of  many  great  men,  not  alone  among 
whom  was  Tiziano,  Moron e  and  Bonifazio.     To  this 
list   of   artists   we   certainly   may   add   "little   Tin 
toretto,"  as  he  was  called,  because  of  his  father  being 
a  dyer.     "Tintura"  is  the  Italian  for  "color,"  and 
"  tintore  "   naturally   is   for  that   of   a   "  colorer  ;  " 
hence   "  tintoretto "   is  the   diminutive  for  "  little 
dyer."     He   was   so   clever  that  his  pictures  were 
often  painted  without  being  drawn,  although,  when 
he  reached  man's  estate,  he  showed  his  appreciation 
of  the  art  of  drawing  by  taking-  Michel  Angelo  for 
his  guide.     Tiziano,  his  master,  figured  side  by  side 
with  the  great  sculptor  as  pre-eminent  in  the  art  of 
coloring;  in  fact,  the  motto  over  his  door  was  "/Z 
disegno  di  Michel  Angelo  il  colorito  di  Tiziano" 
("  The  drawing  of  Michel  Angelo  and  the  coloring  of 
Tiziano.")     It  is  said  that  his  best  pieces  are  "  The 


3O  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

Passion  of  our  Savior,"  and  the  "Miracle  of  St. 
Marc."  He  painted  so  fast  and  with  such  profusion 
that  his  may  be  claimed  as  the  most  prolific  of  all 
Italian  pencils.  His  works  were  all  good,  if  not 
great.  He  was  especially  happy  in  portraits, 
and  here  we  find  the  great  precepts  learned  of  his 
master,  Tiziano,  carried  out  with  extraordinary  vigor 
and  fidelity.  Seeing  only  the  large  pictures  he  has 
done  one  might  well  consider  him  a  wonder,  but  on 
examining  those  of  less  pretense,  one  sees  the  same 
strength  of  color  and  a  perfection  of  design  worthy 
of  Michel  Angelo  himself. 

"  This  one,"  said  the  professor,  looking  straight 
at  it,  "  merits  more  than  a  passing  glance.  See  the 
deep,  earnest  eyes,  delicate  yet  boldly  traced  line 
aments  and  rich  coloring.  It  seems  impossible  to 
realize  that  more  than  four  centuries  have  elapsed 
since  Tintoretto  first  put  this  face  on  canvas.  It  is 
distinct  as  if  painted  only  a  year  ago,  yet  mellowed 
enough  in  tone  by  age  to  have  watched  with  the 
night  stars  in  Bethlehem  when  shepherds  were 
awaiting  the  dawn." 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  31 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  son 
of  the  poor  dyer  caused  his  rivals  •  many  a  sleepless 
night.  His  influence  to-day,  after  four  hundred 
years,  alternately  exalts  and  drives  to  despair  the 
most  ambitious  and  talented  of  his  followers;  yet 
with  all  his  faults,  the  world  would  gladly  give 
birth  to  another  Tintoretto.  It  seems  to  me  that 
when 'one  has  done  so  much  that  is  great,  history 
should  kindly  overlook  the  faults  when  they  are  in 
such  minority." 

"  Oh,  you  may  well  say  with  all  his  faults," 
said  Longfellow,  laughingly,  "  poor  Tintoretto  has 
received  unstinted  praise  and  unstinted  blame  from 
historians  of  every  century.  Still,  all  seem  to  agree 
that  he  was  incapable  of  real  study.  He  abused  a 
natural  talent  by  drawing  upon  it  at  the  last  mo 
ment  for  work  that  another  would  have  already 
prepared  by  faithful  research  and  elaborate  sketches. 
Strange  to  say,  the  more  exorbitant  the  demand  he 
made  upon  himself,  and  the  more  unreasonable,  the 
more  stupendous  was  the  picture  in  an  artistic 
sense.  Perhaps,  had  he  studied  arduously,  his 


32  The  House  at  Cambridge. 


works  might  all  have  been  of  equal  excellence, 
and  compatible  with  genius,  which  Macaulay  de 
fines  as  an  *  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains.'  " 

"  Or  according  to  this,"  I  interrupted,  "  Tinto 
retto  might  have  labored  like  a  galley-slave,  and  yet 
left  to  the  world  no  more  mementos  than  the  few 
that  made  his  fame  and  are  scattered  here  and  there 
with  a  rarity  which  accords  with  their  great  excel 
lence.  Let  us  be  content  with  little." 

Tintoretto  died  in  1588.  Nature  denied  him 
lineal  descendants,  but  bestowed  upon  him  the 
greater  gift  of  living  himself  forever. 

"  Now,"  said  the  poet,  "  will  yon  look  at  my 
David  ?  The  Tintoretto  is  wonderfully  soft,  but  I 
must  say  I  like  the  great  character  expressed  in  this 
face.  David,  you  know,  was  a  celebrated  French 
painter  of  the  last  century,  and  while  a  man  of  great 
talent,  there  can  be  no  comparison  between  himself 
and  Tintoretto  from  an  artistic  standpoint.  In  the 
strength  of  character  painting,  however,  they  cer 
tainly  had  points  in  common.  Look  at  this  head, 
for  instance.  A  great  number  of  his  pictures  are 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  33 

in  the  gallery  at  Versailles,  and  some  famous  ones 
in  the  collection  of  the  Luxembourg,  in  Paris.  One 
of  his  finest  works,  "  La  mort  de  la  reine  Elizabeth," 
in  the  last-named  place,  is  universally  admired.  The 
virgin  queen  is  pictured  half-raised  from  the  pillow, 
endeavoring  to  have  speech  with  her  attendants, 
when  she  is  stricken  by  the  great  destroyer.  The 
terror  and  agony  depicted  on  the  countenance  are  so 
natural  as  to  be  alarming ;  the  hard  face  of  the 
queen,  while  retaining  all  of  its  usual  characteristerics, 
wears  also  a  new  expression  of  humility  that  lessens 
the  general  repulsiveness  and  reflects  wonderful 
credit  on  the  able  pencil  of  the  painter.  It  is  mar 
velous  how,  even  in  imagination,  he  could  catch  so 
fleeting  an  expression  and  so  faithfully  reproduce 
it." 

"  I  remember  well  the  picture  always  possessed  a 
certain  fascination  for  me,"  I  answered,  "  and  I  think 
with  you  that  David  excels  in  portraits.  As  a  color- 
ist,  he  is  crude  and  imitative,  and  his  drawing  never 
put  Michel  Angelo  to  the  blush.  He  was  really  a 

sensational   painter,  and  made  stirring  battle-pieces 
2* 


34  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

enough  to  satisfy  the  blood-thirsty  in  eveiy  land. 
Tho  galleries  in  Versailles  are  filled  with  them. 
All  of  his  works,  however,  have  the  quality  of  being 
intensely  realistic.  One  might  say  that  he  has  used 
miles  of  canvas,  and  his  attempts  were  usually 
grandiose  or  very  modest.  There  seemed  little  half 
way  work  about  him.  He  was  a  man  of  indefati 
gable  energy,  and  while  no  one  ever  called  him  a 
genius,  he  will  always  be  classed  among  the  dis 
tinguished  painters  who  have  done  great  honor  to 
France." 

Leaving  the  antechamber  we  came  to  another 
room,  corresponding  in  size  to  those  previously  seen. 
A  substantial  "buffet  in  beautifully-carved  wood  sug 
gested  the  nature  of  the  apartment.  Over  it  hung 
the  portrait  of  Mr.  T.  G.  Appleton,  the  poet's 
brother-in-law,  taken  in  the  Byronian  style,  at  about 
the  age  of  fi ve-and-twenty.  It  was  a  fine  face,  and 
must  have  been  an  exceedingly  good  likeness. 

Over  the  mantelpiece  was  a  Roman  picture 
by  Guerra,  in  the  style  of  the  Mantegna  frescoes. 
It  was  bought  in  the  Piazzi  di  Spagna,  in  Home, 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  35 

by  Mr.  Longfellow,  and  represents  "  A  Cardinal  and 
his  suite  on  the  Pincio."  His  Holiness  is  just  stop 
ping  to  admire  the  wonderful  fountain  so  well 
known  to  all  visitors  to  the  Eternal  City. 

On  one  side  of  the  room  hung  a  portrait  of  three 
children,  painted  for  the  father,  by  Buchanan  Head. 
All  the  world  is  familiar,  if  not  with  the  painting,  at 
least  with  its  copies.  A  look  of  infinite  tenderness 
came  into  the  poet's  face  as  we  drew  near  to  examine 
the  picture,  and  he  said,  softly  : 

"  Yes,  those  are  my  three  little  girls." 

Mr.  Appleton  interrupted  : 


Grave  Alice,  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith,  with  golden  hair.' 


The  one  to  the  left  is  Edith,  Mrs.  Dana,  the  one  to 
the  right  is  the  eldest  daughter,  Alice,  and  in  the 
center  is  our  little  Annie." 

While  we  were  yet  speaking  Miss  Annie  came 
in.  She  greeted  her  father  affectionately,  and  in  a 
sweetly-modulated  voice  bade  me  welcome.  The 
innate  refinement  of  her  manner  was  shown  in  the 


36  The  House  at  Cambridge. 


ease  with  which  she  joined  us.     The  poet  then  led 
the  way  to  the  state  parlor  or  drawing-room. 

This  room  served  formerly  as  a  sort  of  council  - 
chamber  for  AVashington  and  his  staff.  It  was 
double  the  size  of  any  chamber  I  had  yet  seen,  re 
minding  me,  in  its  stateliness  and  beauty,  of  the  East 
Koom  of  the  White  House.  Two  ancient  fluted  pil 
lars  support  the  ceiling  and  form  a  natural  panel  in 
the  solid  wall  on  one  side.  At  one  end  two  windows 
opened  on  a  French  terrace,  while  directly  facing  the 
other  was  the  glory  of  the  apartment,  a  mammoth 
fire-place.  Although  not  so  antique,  it  has  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  one  in  the  house  of  William  the 
Conqueror  at  Dives,  in  Normandy.  The  old  pile,  at 
present,  is  used  as  a  tavern,  but  in  one  room  the 
grand  old  fire-place  still  remains  in  perfect  preserva 
tion.  We  can  readily  imagine  how  Guillaume  and 
his  bride,  Mathilde  of  Flanders,  sat  together,  as  lovers 
might,  before  their  own  hearth,  and  in  remembrance 
of  the  hour,  scratched,  in  a  stone  in  the  chimney,  the 
letters  G.  and  M.,  a  souvenir  that  centuries  has  not 
effaced. 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  37 

Dives  is  not  generally  known  to  tourists,  although 
it  is  not  far  from  Paris.  It  would  be  insignificant, 
were  it  not  for  a  certain  Norman  prettiness  in 
the  old  houses. 

"  Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer  windows 
and  gables  projecting." 

The  gardens  are  quaint,  and  the  actual  existence 
of  the  home  dwelt  in  by  the  Conqueror  makes  the 
spot  interesting. 

Pointing  to  the  fire-place  before  us,  the  poet  said, 
"  This  chimney  is  old,  but  the  one  up-stairs  bears  a 
plaque  dated  1759." 

We  continued  our  examination  of  the  apartment, 
^  but  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe  all  the  costly 
and  rare  articles  of  vertu  that  adorned  it.  To  the 
left  of  the  fire-place  stood  a  large  Japanese  folding 
screen,  which  partially  hid  a  wall  of  books.  I  say 
"  wall,"  as  the  cases  seemed  literally  built  in  the  side 
of  the  house.  Opposite  the  columns  was  another 
large  window,  looking  out  on  a  side  terrace,  and 
commanding  a  beautiful  view  of  the  spacious  grounds 
belonging  to  the  place.  In  the  window  was  a  small 


38  The  House  at  Cambridge. 

writing-desk,  furnished  with  other  quills,  trinkets 
ancient  and  modern,  and  a  substantially  well-filled 
portfolio.  I  took  up  a  curious  paper  knife,  which 
proved  to  be  a  dagger  bearing  the  arms  of  Francis  L, 
with  the  inscription  "  Tout  est  perdu  fors  VJion- 
neur" 

Seated  beside  the  poet,  I  followed  with  eager 
interest  his  gracious  observations  ;  I  think  everything 
in  the  room  received  an  affectionate  tribute,  and  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  every  souvenir  was  held  in  con 
stant  remembrance  by  him. 

The  hands  of  many  givers  are  peacefully  folded  to 
rest,  while  others  still  do  their  daily  work  in  this  busy 
life  of  ours. 

A  portrait  of  the  Abbe  Listz  in  his  ecclesiastic 
gown,  holding  in  his  hand  a  flaring  taper,  was  a  strik 
ing  likeness  of  the  world-renowned  pianist. 

Admiring  and  discussing  the  time  passed  swiftly 
until  we  were  summoned  to  luncheon.  A  cozy  party 
sat  down  at  table,  and  the  poet  made  the  tea. 
Honored  with  a  place  at  his  right,  I  was  near  enough 
to  enjoy  every  word  that  fell  from  his  lips.  His  con- 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  39 


versation,  spiced  with  admirable  and  appropriate  wit, 
often  sent  the  laugh  around  the  festive  board.  He 
ate  sparingly,  yet  with  such  intention,  that  no  one 
could  feel  less  frugal  than  he,  verifying  the  diifer- 
ence  between  "  living  to  eat,  and — eating  to  live." 

He  enjoyed  his  tea,  and  I  remarked  on  its  flavor 
and  color ;  a  rich  golden  brown,  it  distilled  an  aroma 
particularly  appetizing. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  said  the  poet  heartily, 
"  my  son  Charles  brought  it  all  the  way  from  China." 

Amongst  other  dishes,  "hwnard  a  la  yelee" 
excited  the  following  remark  from  our  host : 

"  I  never  sec  this  dish  without  thinking  of  Jules 
Janin ;  in  his  remarks  on  fish,  he  called  the  lobster 
*  le  cardinal  de  la  mer '  (the  cardinal  of  the  sea) ;  and 
we  all  know,"  with  a  deliciously  sly  laugh  and  a 
mirth-enlivened  countenance,  "  that  the  lobster  is  not 
red  until  it  has  been  boiled." 

Adjoining  to  the  drawing-room  we  lingered  over 
our  coffee,  the  conversation  becoming  ever  more 
animated  and  brilliant  until  daylight  gradually  faded. 
Still  under  the  charm  of  the  professor's  manner,  a 


The  House  at  Cambridge. 


realizing  sense  of  etiquette  forced  me  to  think  of 
leaving.  I  arose  hastily,  pleading  as  an  excuse  for 
our  long  visit,  that  the  poet  himself  had  beguiled  the 
hours  away. 

"  It  is  a  long  distance  to  come,"  he  said  amiably, 
"  and  I  thought  this  morning  that  it  would  be  a  dull 
day  ;  but  your  visit  has  dispelled  the  clouds.  Nathan," 
turning  to  Mr.  Appleton,  "  yon  must  persuade  Madam 
to  come  again  ;  you  know  '  les  amis  de  mes  amis  sont 
mes  amis?  (The  friends  of  my  friends  are  my 
friends.)" 

We  retraversed  the  long  hall  and  found  ourselves 
in  the  front  corridor.  In  turning  to  take  a  last  look 
my  eye  rested  on  a  wondrous  time-piece,  greatly 
resembling  the  one  immortal  in  the  poem,  "The  old 
clock  on  the  stairs." 

A  broad  staircase,  with  two  landings,  leads  to  the 
upper  chambers.  From  the  ceiling,  resting  on  the 
first,  stands  this  ancient  time-piece.  It  is  a  magnifi 
cently  carved  Dutch  clock  with  chimes,  and  is  alto 
gether  a  wonderful  piece  of  mechanism.  The  long 
pendulum  moved  with  a  stately  precision,  and  the  tick, 


The  House  at  Cambridge.  41 

tick,  tick,  was  in  agreeable  and  continuous  harmony. 
The but  stop  !  Who  would  dare  attempt  a  de 
scription  of  a  clock  with  the  poet's  own  loving  por 
trayal  of  one  before  us.. 

**  Half- way  up  the  stair  it  stands, 
It  points  and  beacons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,— 

4  Forever never ! 

Never forever !'  " 

With  these  words  ringing  in  my  ears,  I  turned  to 
the  poet  and  said, 

"  So  this  inspired  the  poem  we  all  know  so  well." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Longfellow,  hastily,  "  that  is  the 
general  idea,  but  it  is  erroneous.  The  real  '  old  clock 
on  the  stairs '  is  in  possession  of  my  brother,  Mr.  T. 
G.  Appleton.  When  I  wrote  about  it,  it  was  in  the 
old  Plunkett-Gold  mansion,  where  we  resided  when 
in  Pittsfield,  Massachusetts." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  I  said,  "these  lines  ex 
plain — 


42  T/te  House  at  Cambridge. 

1  Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat; 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  time-piece  says  to  all, — 

Forever never ! 

Never forever !' 

"  That  description  also  applies  to  this  house ;  it 
stands  somewhat  back  from  the  village  street,  and 
this  clock  is  stationed  half-way  up  the  stairs." 

"  That  probably  gave  rise  to  the  mistake,  but  I 
will  show  you  the  real  clock  the  next  time  you  come 
to  my  brother's,"  said  Mr.  Appleton. 

"We  then  made  our  adieux 


CHAPTEE   II. 

PERSONAL  DESCRIPTION   OF  THE  POET. 

u  Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  seventy 

winters; 
Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak,  that  is  covered  with 

snowflukes ; 
White   as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks  as 

brown  as  the  oak  leaves.'' 

EVANGELINE,  PART  I. 


HINKING  over  the  events  of  the  day  in 
the  quietude  of  my  chamber,  the  recol 
lection  was  so  vivid,  that  I  fancied  my 
self  still  in  the  presence  of  the  poet. 
Longfellow  must,  in  youth,  have  been  what  the 
world  calls  a  handsome  man.  His  was  a  beauty  of 
color  rather  than  classic  regularity  of  feature.  He 
had  long,  light  curling  hair,  which  fell  upon  his 

shoulders   in  tangled  and  graceful  confusion.     His 

[43] 


44  Personal  Description  of  the  Poet. 

eyes  were  cerulean  blue,  and  his  face  glowed  with 
animation ;  the  flesh  tint  being  conspicuously  bright 
and  beautiful. 

He  was  born  February  27th,  1807,  and  since 
then  tho  years  of  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  century 
have  swept  onward  in  their  unending  course.  The 
slender  lad  grew  to  sensitive  youth,  living  more 
within  himself  than  with  the  outer  world,  and  un 
doubtedly  this  extraordinary  mental  introspection 
did  much  to  characterize  his  personal  appearance.  I 
could  see  in  the  exact  pictures  of  him,  taken  at 
twenty,  forty,  and  the  later  years  of  his  life,  the 
same  unvarying,  lineal  features.  His  face,  filled 
with  rugged  lines,  presents  a  contour  of  great  firm 
ness  and  intelligence.  The  nose  is  Roman  rather 
than  Greek,  with  the  very  slightest  aquiline  ten 
dency.  His  eyes  are  clear,  straightforward,  almost 
proud,  yet  reassuring,  rather  deeply  set,  and  shaded 
by  heavy,  overhanging  brows.  In  moments  of  lofty 
and  inspired  speech  they  have  an  eagle  look,  and 
the  orbs  deepen  and  flash.  Like  the  great  bird  of 
prey,  they  seem  to  soar  off  into  endless  space,  grasp- 


Personal  Description  of  the  Poet.  45 

ing  in  the  talons  of  the  mental  vision,  things  unat 
tainable  to  less  ambitious  flight.  With  his  moods 
they  vary,  and  when  calm,  nothing  could  exceed  the 
quietness  of  their  expression.  If  sad,  an  infinite 
tenderness  reposes  in  their  depths,  and  if  merry, 
they  sparkle  and  bubble  over  with  fun.  In  fact, 
before  the  poet  speaks,  these  traitorous  eyes  have 
already  betrayed  his  humor.  I  must  not  forget  the 
greatest  of  all  expressions — humility.  To  one  whose 
soul  and  mind  are  given  to  divine  thought,  'tis  in 
the  eye  that  this  sentiment  finds  its  natural  outcome. 
And  the  world  knows  that  Longfellow's  faith  is  the 
crowning  gem  in  a  diadem  of  virtues.  His  face  is 
not  a  mask  but  an  open  book — a  positive  index  to 
his  character.  His  forehead  is  high,  prominent,  and 
square  at  the  temples ;  numberless  fine  lines  are 
ingrained  in  its  surface,  and  on  either  side,  a 
•slender,  serpentine  vein  starts  from  the  eyes,  and 
mounting  upwards  loses  itself  beneath  a  mass  of 
silvery  white  hair.  I  should  scarcely  call  them  the 
work  of  time,  but  rather  the  marks  of  an  over- 
active  intelligence,  and  they  may  have  appeared  to 


46  Personal  Description  of  the  Poet. 

others  at  thirty  as  plainly  as  they  do  to  me  to-day. 
The  cheek-bones  are  high,  and  near  the  jaw  the 
cheeks  are  slightly  sunken.  The  mouth  is  the  most 
sensitive  feature  in  the  face.  Its  character  is  mobile, 
even  yielding,  absolutely  belying  the  outspoken 
firmness  of  the  other  features.  The  lips  are  rather 
full,  sharply  outlined,  and  faintly  tinged  with  color  ; 
they  close  softly,  and  are  sometimes  tremulous  with 
emotional  speech.  Longfellow  might  be  coaxed  but 
never  driven.  The  whole  of  the  face  glows  with  a 
beautiful  carnation  more  suggestive  of  youth  than 
old  age.  The  lower  part  is  completely  hidden  by 
a  wavy  beard  of  snowy  whiteness,  which  also  half 
conceals  the  slender  throat.  The  hair,  mingling  with 
this,  sets  the  rosy  face  in  an  aureole  of  snow.  The 
chest  is  broad,  not  deep.  With  a  supple  and  graceful 
carriage,  he  is  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  has  a  nature 
of  extraordinary  vigor. 

The  charm  of  a  well-bred  manner  asserts  itself 
over  every  other  personal  attribute.  Were  Long 
fellow  less  Longfellow — were  he  less  characteristic 
of  a  poet  than  a  peasant,  his  courteous  affability  and 


Personal  Description  of  the  Poet.  47 

rare  grace  of  manner  would  still  far  outshine  many 
wlio  have  only  this  dependence  for  their  success  in 
life.  His  disposition  is  kindliness  and  sweetness 
itself,  sympathetic,  and  utterly  void  of  the  slightest 
touch  of  vanity. 

Perhaps  I  have  drawn  on  my  imagination,  still,  I 
think  not.  The  first  lines  of  Hyperion  come  into 
my  mind — Hyperion,  the  greatest  poem  in  modern 
prose : 

"  In  John  Lyly's  <  Endymion,'  Sir  Topas  is  made 
to  say:  'Dost  thou  know  what  a  poet  is?  Why, 
fool,  a  poet  is  as  much  as  one  should  say — a  poet !' 
And  thou,  reader,  dost  thou  know  what  a  hero  is  ? 
Why,  a  hero  is  as  much  as  one  should  say — a  hero  !" 

According  to  this,  any  further  description  would 
be  ambiguous.  Longfellow  is  a  poet,  and — my  hero. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  VISIT  TO   QUEEN  VICTORIA. 

11  Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 
Who  craze  the  brain  \\ith  their  delirious  dance, 
Art  thou,  oh,  sweet  historian  of  the  heart. 
Therefore  to  thee  the  laurel  leaves  belong, 
To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  art." 

WAPENTAKE.— To  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

"  Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom, 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
As  up  the  convent  walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers  '  Peace.'  " 

To  DANTE. 

T  an   early   date,  I  availed  myself  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  invitation  to  visit  him  again. 
As  I  drew  near  the  house  my  eyes  were 
gladdened  with  a  sight  of  the  poet.     He 
was   slowly  pacing   up  and  down  the  long  terrace. 
[48] 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  49 

Enveloped  in  an  old-fashioned  mantle,  one  end  of 
which  was  thrown  carelessly  over  his  shoulder,  with 
an  Alpine  hat  of  soft  brown  felt,  he  looked  a  very 
handsome  man,  and  the  living  embodiment  of  one 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  cavaliers. 

Apparently  he  was  better  than  when  I  last  saw 
him.  The  fresh  spring  air  and  bright  sunshine  lent 
a  glow  to  his  cheek  and  an  unusual  brightness  to  his 
eye.  He  greeted  me  cordially.  As  he  was  taking 
his  usual  morning  exercise,  I  begged  not  to  inter 
rupt,  and  together  we  continued  the  promenade  up 
and  down  the  old  elm-shaded  avenue,  and  back  again 
to  the  front  piazza.  For  the  first  time  I  noticed  the 
house  and  its  situation. 

It  stands  on  the  road  to  Mount  Auburn,  about 
half  a  mile  from  Harvard  College,  and  commands  a 
perfect  view  of  the  Charles  River,  making  a  silver  S 
in  the  meadow.  It  is  quiet,  unostentatious,  and 
— yellow. 

In  speaking  of  it,  Mr.  Appleton  suggested  that  I 
might  at  least  dignify  it  with  the  name  of  "ecru" 

whereat  the  poet  said  gravely, 
3 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 


"  Go  on,  I  don't  mind  what  you  call  it,  only  it  is 
yellow,   and   I    like   things    to  have    their  proper 


names." 


Thus,  lightly  conversing,  we  went  within  doors. 

Scarcely  were  we  seated  when  the  visitors'  bell 
announced  callers.  This  time  I  was  a  looker-on,  and 
watched  the  poet's  reception  of  his  guests  with  in 
finite  interest. 

In  a  general  conversation,  an  unerring  instinct 
guided  his  questions  and  replies.  He  is  so  quick  a 
reader  of  character,  that  not  one  word  fell  on  an  uri- 
appreciative  person.  Betrayed  into  some  warmth  of 
feeling  at  a  casual  remark,  he  commenced  what 
would  have  been  a  glowing  description  of  something 
he  had  seen,  but,  glancing  a  second  time  at  his  visitor, 
he  quietly  dropped  the  thread  of  his  remarks.  He 
knows  instantaneously  by  the  questions  put  to  him, 
the  mental  calibre  of  each  and  every  interlocutor. 

Of  course,  as  many  epistolary  tramps  visit  him  out 
of  curiosity,  as  well-intentioned  litterateurs  who  wor 
ship  at  the  shrine  of  poetic  art.  It  was  delicious  to 
see  him  quietly  put  down  the  former  without  their 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  5  [ 

being  aware  of  it,  and  to  remark  with  what  astute 
ness  he  divined  the  tastes  of  the  latter  mentioned. 
Evidently  the  old  adage  of  casting  pearls  before 
swine  is  not  unknown  to  him. 

A  bright  little  lad  was  shown  into  the  room.  He 
was  very  young,  perhaps  seven  years  of  age,  and  held 
in  his  hand  a  newly-bound  volume.  His  manner 
suggested  foreign  breeding,  as  he  bowed  with  raariou- 
nette-like  gravity  to  every  one  present,  and  there 
stood  still  as  if  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

Longfellow  looked  up  smilingly ;  his  love  of  chil 
dren  was  evident  in  the  mildness  of  his  speech. 

"  Good  morning,  my  lad,"  said  he.  u  Did  you 
wish  to  see  me  ?" 

The  boy  said  hesitatingly,  "  Professor  Longfel 
low?" 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  poet  kindly,  "  what  is  it  ? 
Come  hither." 

"  This  is  my  birthday,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  come 
to  beg  you  to  put  your  autograph  in  my  new  album. 
Mother  just  gave  it  to  me,  and  she  said  she  thought 
I  might  ask  you." 


52  A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  the  poet. 

He  looked  up  shyly.  "  I  am  named  for  you,"  lie 
said  simply,  "and  my  father  works  in  the  college." 

The  poet  was  touched,  and  the  shadows  in  his 
face  deepened  into  tender  thoughtfulness.  He  took 
the  book,  and  after  a  moment  inscribed  the  words, 
"To  my  little  namesake.  In  remembrance  of 
Henry  "W.  Longfellow."  He  then  drew  the  lad 
towards  him,  affectionately  patted  his  hoad,  and 
kissed  his  cheek  in  sign  of  adieu,  at  the  same  time 
sending  his  thanks  to  the  mother  for  her  kind 
remembrance.  The  boy  went  proudly  out  with  his 
book  under  his  arm,  and  this  circumstance  hastened 
the  departure  of  the  other  guests. 

Some  new  reviews  and  magazines  being  on  the 
table,  Longfellow  turned  to  Mr.  Appleton,  and 
selecting  one  from  amongst  them,  showed  it  to  him. 
It  was  an  English  publication,  and  contained  a  criti 
cism  on  himself  and  his  works.  In  it  the  author 
called  Longfellow  a  "  poet  of  the  people." 

I  had  thought  him  above  caring  what  a  news 
paper  said  about  him,  still  his  annoyance  was  visible 


A   Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  53 

in  the  forced  indifference  of  liis  tone  while  reading 
it,  and  a  short  laugh  which  now  and  then  half -escaped 
him.  The  words  "  poet  of  the  people "  evidently 
amused  him,  and  in  a  careless,  half-indifferent  way 
he  asked  Mr.  Appleton's  explanation  of  them.  Mr. 
Appleton  hesitated,  but  I  felt  the  way  out  of  it. 

The  English  critic,  with  natural  pride,  in  refer 
ring  to  Tennyson  as  the  "poet  of  the  educated 
masses,"  and  to  Longfellow  as  the  "poet  of  the 
people  "  unconsciously  paid  the  highest  compliment 
to  the  latter.  "With  this  thought  in  my  mind,  I  ven 
tured  to  say,  with  reasonable  assurance  : 

"  The  truly  inspired  address  all  the  world  when 
they  speak  to  the  heart.  Eienzi,  the  last  of  the 
Roman  tribunes,  was  not  only  a  great  man,  but  a 
poet  of  the  people,  and  he  said  '  Vox  poputi,  vox 
Dei.''  Blind  Homer  did  not  improvise  for  kings  and 
queens,  yet  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  stand  to-day. 
Dante's  Divine  Comedy  is  addressed  to  the  people ; 
Tasso  and  the  great  Ariosto  were  the  people's  poets, 
although  the  former  was  so  much  in  love  with 
Leonora  as  to  ardently  desire  alliance  with  a  duke's 


54  A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 

sister;  and  in  our  own  time  Victor  Hugo  exiled 
himself  to  be  able  to  write  for  them." 

The  urbanity  of  our  poet  was  quite  restored  ;  he 
looked  up  with  an  entirely  changed  expression,  arid 
said,  lightly : 

< '  Speaking  of  all  those  European  poets  reminds 
me  of  my  last  visit  to  England.  Shall  I  tell  you 
about  it  ?  Would  you  care  to  hear  ?" 

"Would  we  care  to  hear!  I  should  think  we 
•would. 

We  drew  our"  chairs  side  by  side,  and  Longfellow 
began  : 

"When  I  last  went  to  England  I  was  pleased 
and  honored  to  receive  an  invitation  from  the  queen 
to  pay  a  visit  to  Windsor  Castle.  A  royal  invitation 
is  a  command,  and  being  in  Her  Majesty's  domin 
ions,  I  obeyed.  Windsor  is  but  a  short  distance  by 
rail  from  London.  The  Thursday  following  my 
arrival  I  presented  myself  at  the  palace.  My  name 
being  announced,  the  late  Lady  Augusta  Stanley 
came  forward  and  received  me  with  considerable 
ceremony.  Passing  through  numerous  apartments 


A    Visit  to  Queen    Victoria.  55 


of  great  richness  and  historic  beauty,  I  was  finally 
left  in  an  oval  gallery  of  still  more  striking  magnifi 
cence.  She  left  me,  saying  that  she  would  announce 
my  visit  to  Her  Majesty. 

"  In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  Lady  Stan 
ley  returned,  and  said  that  her  royal  mistress  would 
be  graciously  pleased  to  receive  me.  I  was  then  con 
ducted  forth  from  the  room,  and  we  passed  through 
several  long  corridors.  To  rny  amazement  doors 
were  opened  and  shut,  numberless  heads  peeped  out, 
surreptitiously  drew  back,  and  mysterious  whisper 
ings  seemed  to  fill  the  royal  apartment  with  indefi 
nable  murmurings.  This  caused  mo  wonderment, 
and  no  slight  discomfort.  I  was  directly  ushered 
into  the  Throne  Room.  An  imposing  lady  in  black, 
with  flowing  drapery,  came  quickly  forward  to 
greet  me.  It  was  Her  Majesty,  Queen  Victoria. 
She  extended  her  hand,  and  I  offered  to  take  it." 

"  What !"  I  interrupted,  "  did  you  not  bend  and 
offer  to  kiss  it  ?" 

"  No,"  said  he,  timidly,  "  I  was  not  then  familiar 
or  acquainted  with  court  etiquette,  as  I  am  now. 


56  A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 

She  offered  me  her  hand  evidently  to  shake,  and  I 
shook  it." 

"Why,"  said  I,  "she  is  the  most  inexorably 
exigeante  of  all  sovereigns.  You  must  have  horri 
fied  her." 

"I  presume  I  did,"  said  he  simply.  "Now  I 
think  of  it,  she  was  disconcerted,  I  suppose  for  that 
reason,  but  she  rallied  graciously,  and  asked  me 
about  America  and  myself.  She  explained, 

" '  We  speak  of  America  first,  because  you  are 
America's  poet.  Tennyson  is  ours.' 

"  '  Tennyson  is  the  world's  poet,  Madam,'  said  I, 
bowing  gravely.  She  smiled  in  gratified  acquies 
cence  and  continued, 

"  (  You  are  very  generous.' 

Her  Majesty  was  then  pleased  to  converse  on 
general  topics,  but  persistently  got  back  to  the  sub 
ject  of  myself.  I  felt  she  was  piqued  about  some 
thing  at  first,  and  her  last  words  were : 

" l  We  shall  not  forget  you,'  adding,  with  a  laugh, 
1  why,  even  all  my  servants  read  your  poems  !' ': 

The  poet  then  glanced  up,  and  with  an  almost 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  57 

comical  expression,  and,  as  after  reading  the  criti 
cism,  he  said, 

"  What  do  you  think  she  intended  by  it  ?  I 
was  nonplussed,  and  to-day,  although  many  years 
have  passed,  I  am  undecided  as  to  what  Her  Majes 
ty's  real  meaning  was." 

"  Well,  dear  master,"  said  I,  "  judging  from 
Her  Majesty's  appreciation  of  the  truly  beautiful 
in  art  and  nature,  I  think  her  words  were  meant  to 
convey  a  decided  compliment.  It  was  hard  for  her 
to  acknowledge  that  the  poems  of  a  foreigner  were 
household  words  for  even  the  lowest  of  her  sub 
jects,  when  her  own  Poet  Laureate  does  not  always 
succeed  in  making  himself  understood  by  the  masses 
for  whom  he  writes." 

The  poet  looked  up  and  said  : 

"  Speaking  of  poets,  have  you  seen  my  picture 
of  Dante  ?  It  was  supposed,  after  his  death,  that  a 
portrait  of  him  existed  in  the  JBargello  Palace,  in 
Florence.  All  efforts  to  discover  it  had  been  futile, 
when  in  tearing  down  the  fresco  in  one  of  the 
apartments,  the  head  was  discovered,  but  alas !  not 
3* 


58  A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 


in  a  perfect  state.  The  cheek  under  the  left  eye 
was  irremediably  scarred.  Happily,  I  possess  a  cor 
rect  drawing  of  the  original." 

We  then  went  to  examine  it.  I  was  surprised 
at  the  sweetness  and  extreme  delicateness  of  the 
features. 

"The  pictures  of  the  present  day,"  said  Longfel 
low,  "  are  all  taken  from  another  view  of  the  face, 
representing  a  much  older  man  with  matured  features 
and  sharply  elongated  countenance.  The  head  is 
covered  with  a  monk's  cowl ;  a  part  of  the  shoul 
ders  are  discovered,  and  in  his  hand  lie  carries  an 
ascetic  flower.  There  is  a  boyish  expression  about 
the  lips  of  the  Bargello  picture,  which  lends  a 
charm  not  seen  in  those  of  a  later  date,  and  even 
the  nose  is  without  the  accustomed  sharpness. 

"  Richard  Henry  Wild,  of  Georgia,  the  author  of 
the  charming  lines  on  the  Tampa  rose, 

"  My  life  is  like  the  rose  that  blooms,  &c.," 

when  in  Florence,  became  convinced  that  there  must 
be  under  the  whitewash  of  the  Bargello  Palace,  a 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  59 

portrait  of  Dante.  He  induced  Mr.  Kirkup,  an 
English  artist  of  considerable  influence  in  Florence, 
to  persuade  the  government  to  allow  him  to  make  a 
search  for  the  picture.  The  room  was  explored 
nearly  through  its  entire  length,  when  their  faith 
was  rewarded  by  discovering  the  now  well-known 
fresco  of  the  youthful  Dante.  The  great  interest  of 
the  head  is  in  the  fact  that  it  expresses  the  sweet 
boyish  face  of  the  poet,  as  yet  unfurrowed  by  care  or 
torn  by  the  terrible  conflicts  of  his  later  life.  One  is 
all  youthful  hope  and  trust,  and  the  other  bitter, 
almost  saturnine,  with  life-long  warfare.  To  use  Mr. 
Longfellow's  own  words, 

"  Such  a  fate  as  this  was  Dante's, 
By  defeat  and  exile  maddened." 

Dante  was  born  in  Florence,  Italy,  in  the  year 
1265,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  or,  as  it  is  called 
nowadays  the  "tre  cento" — famous  in  Italian  lore  as 
the  century  most  productive  of  the  great  lights  of 
her  literature.  It  is  asserted  by  Ugolini,  a  Floren 
tine,  that  Dante's  father  was  a  certain  Aldighiero  di 


60  A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 

Bellincione,  and  that  the  poet  was  born  outside  the 
city  gates  in  a  house  of  poor  aspect,  and  of  very  hum 
ble  dimensions.  The  real  truth  is,  that  no  one  ever 
knew  positively  who  his  father  was.  There  have 
been  many  conjectures,  many  statements,  but  one 
and  all  are  alike  inaccurate.  Dante  grew  to  youth 
with  many  children  about  Florence,  and  had  a  very 
good  tutor  in  the  person  of  a  certain  Brunetto  Latini. 
At  an  early  age  he  was  studious,  gentle,  and  chival 
rous  He  went  into  the  army  at  twenty -four,  and 
fought  for  his  country  at  Campaldino,  a  brave  soldier 
and  a  true  patriot ;  but  in  1300,  under  Charles  de 
Yalois,  he  was  suspected  of  siding  with  the  enemy, 
and  with  a  faithful  few  was  exiled.  Shortly  from 
Gorgonza,  where  they  had  joined  their  forces,  they 
attacked  Florence,  but  with  defeat  the  only  result. 
Dante  went  to  Verona  and  begged  aid  of  the  Scaligeri, 
a  noble  house  who  flourished  in  that  century,  and 
whose  palaces  and  monuments  to-day  are  among  the 
ancient  glories  of  Yerona — but  from  their  refusal  he 
lost  heart  momentarily.  Dante  was  a  man  of  won 
drous  courage  and  patience,  and  he  tried  in  every 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  61 

way,  even  through  the  medium  of  Pope  Leon  III.,  to 
raise  his  country  to  a  harmonious  and  beautiful  state, 
but  he  was  only  laughed  at. 

He  was  married  to  Gemma  di  Donati  and  had 
seven  children,  but  the  love  of  his  life  was  Beatrice 
Portinari,  and  this  affection,  most  beautiful  in  the 
annals  of  platonic  regard,  colored  his  whole  existence, 
and  is  the  most  prominent  figure  in  the  part  of  his 
poem  called  "II  Paradiso."  Dante  wrote  in  verse 
and  in  prose  in  Italian,  called  the  Vulgar  tongue,  and 
in  Latin.  His  great  poem  is  divided  into  three  parts, 
and  is  called  "la  Divina  Commedia"  (the  Divine 
Comedy).  The  first  part  is  "  F  Inferno  "  (the  Lower 
Kegions),  The  second  is  "  II  Purgatorio  "  (Purgatory), 
and  the  third  is  "  II  Paradiso  "  (Paradise).  Although 
living  at  a  time  when  everything  was  corrupt,  Dante 
had  a  due  regard  for  decency,  and  was  unflagging  in 
his  efforts  to  uphold  virtue,  and  condemn  vice.  He 
was  in  reality  the  creator  of  the  pure  Italian  lan 
guage,  and  to-day  even  Italians  need  almost  a  special 
education  to  be  able  to  understand  his  exquisite  met- 
aphors,  grand  similes,  and  marvelous  richness  and 


62  A    Visit  to  Queen    Victoria. 

redundancy  of  speech.  His  life  was  begun  in  liberty, 
it  finished  in  exile,  but  he  has  given  to  the  world  a 
poem  that  can  never  die ;  and  the  greater  the 
scholar  to-day,  the  more  profound  is  his  reverence  and 
admiration  for  Danet.  No  one  will  ever  again  write 
a  "'Divina  Commedia." 

Longfellow,  who  understands,  in  an  eminent 
degree,  translation  as  an  art,  yet  had  a  deeper  insight 
into  the  hearts  of  authors.  He  interpreted  by  intui 
tion  and  poetic  sentiment,  not  by  the  mere  medium 
of  vulgar  verse.  It  is  impossible  to  do  the  great 
Italian  poet  justice  in  a  foreign  tongue,  but  of  all 
pretenders  the  sweetest  rhythm  has  followed  Long 
fellow's  lines,  and  the  most  comprehensive  descrip 
tion  of  Dante's  meaning  is  embodied  in  some  of  our 
own  poet's  words.  He  worshiped  him,  and  knew 
his  songs  by  heart.  Dante's  three  books  of  "  The 
Inferno,"  "Purgatorio,"  and  "Paradiso"  have  fur 
nished  thought  and  material  for  writing  to  hundreds 
of  poets  during  six  centuries.  Dante  died  in  Ra 
venna  the  fourteenth  of  September,  1321,  thus  end 
ing  a  life  which  lias  been  of  greatest  use  to  the 


A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria.  63 


world.  Although  in  itself  unequal,  disappointing 
and  misguided,  it  was  not,  as  he  expressed  it,  a 
failure. 

Before  leaving,  a  delightful  half  hour  was  spent 
with  the  autograph  album.  There  were  letters  of 
George  Washington,  pages  from  Carlisle,  Emerson, 
Hawthorne,  Chas.  Simmer,  Dean  Stanley,  Agassiz, 
Alfred  Tennyson,  Charles  Dickens,  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes,  Bayard  Taylor,  Rossini,  Jenny  Lind,  Nils- 
son,  and  a  host  of  others.  They  had  been  cared  for 
by  the  poet's  own  hands,  and  were  carefully  and 
neatly  pasted  in  a  beautiful  book. 

Longfellow  looked  it  over  with  me,  and  showed 
almost  as  much  curiosity  in  it  as  1  did.  He 
looked  lovingly  at  the  well-known  pages,  and  stopped 
here  and  there  to  comment  on  the  person,  or  the 
character  of  their  calligraphy. 

I  never  before  had  seen  so  wonderful  a  collection 
of  autographs  and  autograph  letters,  and  promised 
myself  the  pleasure  of  going  through  it  again  at  no 
distant  day.  The  professor  closed  the  book  with  an 
affectionate  smile,  and  said : 


64  A    Visit  to  Queen   Victoria. 

"  You  must  look  at  it  quite  carefully  the  next  time. 
We  will  go  over  it  together,  and  I  will  explain  all  in 
it  that  you  do  not  understand.  Some  of  the  letters 
are  very  curious,  some  piquant,  and  many  quite 
beautiful.  Others,  as  you  see,  are  merely  invitations 
and  notes.  I  must  confess  to  the  general  weakness, 
if  weakness  it  be.  I  love  to  look  at  autographs,  and 
this  book  is  one  of  my  treasures." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
LONGFELLOW'S  CHARACTER. 

"  Live  I,  so  live  I, 
To  my  Lord  heartily, 
To  my  Prince  faithfully, 
To  my  neighbor  honestly, 

Die  I,  so  die  I." 

LAW  OP  LIFE. 

Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are  combined ; 
Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  golden  room  we  find." 

ART  AND  TACT. 

"I  ask  myself,  is  this  a  dream  ? 
Will  it  all  vanish  into  air  ? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 
And  perfect  beauty  anywhere  ?" 

CADENABBIA,  LAKE  OP  COMO. 

R  LONGFELLOW  has  been  twice  married ; 
his  first  wife  was  the  beautiful  Miss  Potter, 
of  Maine.     She  died  in  Rotterdam  after 
five  years  of  wedded  life  and  unalloyed 
happiness.    Some  years  later  Mr.  Longfellow  espoused 
Miss  Fanny  Appleton,  of  Boston,  a  lady  of  rare  per- 
[65] 


66  Longfellow  s    C liar  act  cr. 

sonal  beauty,  splendid  family,  and  of  a  character 
eminently  suited  to  the  student  and  poet  husband. 
Mr.  Longfellow  has  a  happy  home,  and  five  children, 
two  sons  and  three  daughters,  the  fruit  of  this  second 
union.  They  are  now  grown  up  and  live  at  home  with 
their  father,  or  if  not  all  in  the  house,  at  least  riot  far 
away.  Charles  Longfellow,  the  eldest  son,  is  a 
famous  yachtsman,  and  in  consequence  has  passed 
many  years  abroad  and  cruising  in  foreign  waters. 
Mr.  Ernest,  the  second  son,  is  a  well-known  artist  of 
great  talent  and  fine  tuition  in  his  school  of  panning. 
He  is  married,  and  lives  in  Cambridge,  directly  in 
front  of  the  Craigie  mansion.  The  beautiful  trio 
portrait  of  three  little  girls  by  Buchanan  Head,  rep 
resents  the  poet's  daughters.  The  picture  is  too  well 
known  to  need  description,  but  the  ladies  all  bear 
the  same  look  that  they  had  in  youth,  and  are 
women  of  rare  sweetness  and  refinement  of  character. 
Miss  Alice  Longfellow,  the  eldest,  and  Miss  Annie 
live  at  home,  while  Miss  Edith,  the  second  daughter, 
is  now  Mrs.  Dana,  the  wife  of  Kichard  Dana,  Jr.,  the 
son  of  the  well-known  poet. 


Long fc How  s    Character.  67 

Longfellow  lives  at  Cambridge  the  year  round, 
with  the  exception  of  the  summer  months.  These  are 
usually  passed  at  Nahant,  a  charming  sea-side  resort, 
just  northeast  of  Boston,  and  directly  facing  Lynn. 
It  is  almost  a  neck  of  land,  and  is  so  retired  a  spot 
that  not  all  the  world  knows  of  its  existence. 

Honored  with  an  invitation  to  visit  the  poet  and 
his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Appleton,  I  actually  found 
myself  en  route,  and  was  not  a  little  disappointed  to 
see  unmistakable  signs  of  rain. 

Heinrich  Heine  poetically  says :  "  Der  Himmel 
hat  cine  Thrdne  geweint  /"  evidently  he  was  not 
speaking  of  Boston,  for  in  this  case,  Heaven  not  only 
wept  one,  but  many  tears  The  dark  clouds  grew 
darker  and  the  rain  began  to  fall,  timidly,  softly,  and 
exasperatingly,  as  it  alone  knows  how  to  do  in  London 
and  her  sister,  the  Hub.  I  can  always  reconcile  myself 
to  a  hearty  down-pour,  but  I  despise  a  half-and-half 
shower  that  will  not  come  boldly  out  and  acknowl 
edge  itself  rain,  hiding  in  the  skirts  of  mist  and 
deceiving  all  the  world  as  to  its  legitimate  intention. 
I  always  think  that  there  must  be  something  wrong 


68  Longfellow  s    Character, 

overhead,  yet  I  suppose  in  nature's  great  plan  there 
must  occasionally  be  a  drizzle. 

Perhaps  it  is  heresy,  but  I  am  not  fond  of  travel 
ing  by  water  ;  however,  I  allowed  myself  to  be  per 
suaded  to  go  by  boat.  After  an  hour's  run  we 
stopped,  and  the  refreshing  sight  of  a  patch  of  green 
made  me  anxious  to  get  once  more  on  terra  forma. 
The  landing  is  very  unpretentious,  yet  the  feet  of 
many  distinguished  people  have  trodden  its  simple 
boards. 

A  party  approaching,  disclosed  to  view  no  less  a 
person  than  the  poet  himself,  accompanied  by  his 
daughters,  with  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton.  The  ladies 
were  taking  advantage  of  the  wet  day  to  go  to  town, 
my  arrival  being  quite  unexpected,  on  account  of  the 
rain.  Begging  them  not  to  allow  me  to  interfere 
with  their  plans,  I  had  an  agreeable  escort  back  to  the 
house  in  the  persons  of  the  poet  and  Mr.  Nathan. 

Nahant,  unlike  most  sea-side  places,  is  a  little 
bower  of  verdure.  The  coast  is  cultivated  right  to 
the  water's  edge.  Smiling  grasses  and  ferns  lean 
lovingly  over  into  the  basin,  unconsciously  giving  a 


Longfellow  s    Character.  69 

touch  of  art  to  nature's  generosity.  Nothing  is  so  dis 
heartening  as  a  sterile,  barren  beach,  with  no  sight 
of  trees  or  vegetation,  and  only  hungry  waters  lap 
ping  remorselessly  up  on  the  strand.  There  is 
scarcely  any  seaboard  to  speak  of,  and  the  grounds 
of  the  various  properties  extend  quite  to  the  water. 
They  are  all  in  a  state  of  natural  vegetation,  with 
clambering  vines,  trailing  sea- weed,  and  rocks  lying 
up  against  the  banks  overgrown  with  moss  and 
prettiness. 

Etretat,  on  the  coast  of  Normandy,  is  not  unlike 
Nahant  in  its  retirement  and  natural  beauty.  We 
miss  in  our  American  resort  the  enormous  falaises 
(cliffs)  that  clasp  the  French  village  in  their  embrace 
and  stand  boldly  out  to  sea,  forming  a  beautiful 
beach  that  is  adorned  by  promenaders.  Observed 
from  a  distance,  it  is  like  an  old  Gobelin  tapestry 
pictured  with  living  forms  of  brightness  and  beauty. 

Nahant,  without  the  cliffs,  is  none  the  less  invit 
ing,  and  although  the  tableau  is  different,  its  quaint 
grace  still  reminds  me  of  Etretat. 

The  house  occupied  by  the  professor  is  large, 


Longfellow?  s    Character 


roomy,  and  unpretentious.  It  is  built  of  wood,  in 
Italian  style,  with  a  broad  porticoed  terrace  com 
pletely  surrounding  it.  The  front  part,  facing  the 
street,  is  two  stories  in  height,  and  on  the  first  floor 
French  windows  open  out  on  the  terrace,  disclosing 
to  view  a  velvety  grass-plot.  The  back,  with  an 
additional  \t  ing,  faces  the  sea,  and  a  sharp  descent  in 
the  hill  gives  it  three  stories  on  this  side.  The  ter 
race,  thus  having  the  appearance  of  a  high  balcony 
overlooking  a  picturesque  declivity,  commands  a 
superb  view  of  the  sea  and  surrounding  country. 

There  is  a  summer  garden,  replete  with  the  richest 
vegetation.  A  profusion  of  wild  roses  and  sweet- 
briar  fills  the  air  with  perfume,  while  the  many- 
leaved  trees  are  so  vine-  entangled  that  their  identity 
is  imperiled  by  a  luxuriant  mass  of  living  creepers. 

Bacon  says,  "  God  Almighty  first  planted  a 
garden,"  and  in  the  natural  beauty  of  this  one,  we 
perceive  the  touch  of  the  master  hand. 

The  place  has  a  delightful  home  air,  and  like 
many  country  houses,  the  exterior  is  very  simple. 

Its  interior  is  scarcely  more  ostentatious.     I  say 


Longfellow  s    Character. 


"like"  many  houses,  yet  I  think  there  are  few  in 
the  world  that  would  make  the  same  effect,  being 
equally  unpretentious. 

The  rooms,  like  those  of  the  Craigie  Mansion, 
are  large,  airy,  sympathetic,  and  adorned  in  the  most 
perfect  taste.  The  prevailing  tone  is  light,  the 
chairs  are  mostly  of  bamboo  or  cane,  and  the  floors 
are  covered  with  carpets  and  matting.  The  walls 
are  hung  with  line  pictures,  embracing  a  variety 
of  engravings,  crayon  sketches  and  water  colors. 

Some  curious  painted  pebbles,  framed  in  a  back 
ground  of  velvet,  form  a  unique  and  handsome  orna 
ment.  They  are  the  work  of  Mr.  T.  Gr.  Appleton, 
and  are  faithful  pictures  of  the  surrounding  scenery, 
together  with  other  charming  bits  made  from  his 
sketches.  They  are  remarkably  well  done,  and  the 
miniature  size  of  the  figures  detracts  nothing  from 
their  perfection. 

There  is  an  air  of  refinement  throughout  the 
house  that  quickly  communicates  itself  to  the  visitor, 
and  a  suspicious  sprinkling,  here  and  there,  of  the 


Jjmgfellaw's    Character. 


best  authors,  betrays  the  presence  of  the  Jioinnw  de 
lettres. 

Money  will  buy  much,  but  the  greatest  of  earth's 
treasures,  virtue  and  dignity  of  mind,  are  not  salable 
articles.  A  room  may  be  piled  high  with  carved 
cases  that  hold  only  gaudy  bindings  and  trashy  vol 
umes  ;  the  paintings  thereof  may  be  Rafael  les 
Guidos,  Rembrandts  or  Carlo  Dolces  ;  the  carpets  the 
finests  that  the  looms  of  Persia  fabricate ;  the  glasses 
exhaust  the  wealth  of  Venice ;  the  mosaics  outvie 
the  Florentine  roses  themselves,  and  the  statuary 
reflect  the  handiwork  of  Michel  Angelo's  own 
chisel,  yet  the  home  where  intellect  is  the  high 
priest  is  richer  in  adornment  than  a  palace  filled 
with  all  these,  and  devoid  of  the  refining  influence 
that  permeates  a  house  inhabited  by  persons  of  intel 
lect,  education,  and  natural  breeding. 

Longfellow  lives  in  quiet  luxury  and  elegance, 
while  all  the  comforts  of  a  real  home  surround  him. 
Still,  he  is  so  much  in  himself,  his  very  presence  and 
manner  are  so  infinitely  more  attractive  than  any 
article  that  decorates  his  dwelling,  that  the  outward 


Lougfeffow's    Character.  73 

forms  of  wealth  are  but  as  dross,  when  compared 
with  the  inner  beauties  of  a  God-given  mind.  One 
must  visit  the  poet  many  times  before  realizing  that 
the  four  walls  contain  objects  of  luxury  many  and 
rare,  and  that  here  are  scattered  the  thousand  and 
one  beautiful  things  that  a  man  of  taste  instinctively 
gathers  around  him. 

While  the  house  in  Cambridge  is  replete  with 
chef-cPwuvres  inestimable  in  the  world  of  art,  yet 
never,  with  a  single  visit,  could  one  carry  away  other 
souvenirs '  than  that  of  a  beautiful  home  and  a  har 
monious  household.  It  is  the  home  of  a  poet,  with 
the  poet  a  dweller  therein,  himself  the  most  perfect 
creation  among  his  household  gods. 

Longfellow  shows,  in  a  thousand  ways,  that  he 
has  no  wisli  to  appear  other  than  a  well-bred  gentle 
man.  The  complete  absence  of  ostentation  in  his 
person  and  surroundings  is  not  the  least  of  liis 
charms. 

Before  I  had  been  long  an  inmate  of  his  house 
hold  an  almost  thorough  understanding  of  the  man 
came  to  me.  That  which  I  had  remarked,  in  a  casual 


74  Longfellow's    Character. 

visit,  as  seeming  modesty  and  reticence,  now  im 
pressed  me  as  an  absolute  characteristic  of  the  man. 

I  think,  in  the  history  of  all  poets  and  distin 
guished  men  of  letters,  some  eccentricities  of  mind, 
character  or  person  have  been  remarked.  It  is  also 
^  pose  among  persons  whose  talent,  perhaps  genius, 
have  lifted  them  out  of  the  rut  of  e very-day  exist 
ence,  to  feign  some  startling  personality,  whether 
from  inordinate  vanity,  or  a  wish  to  be  thought 
eccentric,  or  whether  affected  merely  from  the  un 
worthy  love  of  being  peculiar,  has  never  been  ex 
plained.  The  fond  cherishing  of  a  false  idea  about 
self,  carried  to  extremity,  constitutes  a  glaring  fault. 
It  is  excused  in  a  professed  "  genius,"  simply  because 
the  world  says  "  we  must  overlook  this  or  that  little 
idiosyncrasy,  he  has  so  much  talent." 

A  celebrated  person,  whose  name  I  will  not  men 
tion,  used  often  to  be  so  fatigued  with  the  cares  of 
the  day  that  evening  found  him  in  a  sta,te  not  exactly 
authorized  by  Beau  Brummel.  He  received  his 
guests,  however,  and  the  charm  of  his  exquisite  con 
versation  blinded  all  to  his  appearance,  with  the 


Longfellow  s    Character.  75 


exception  of  one — an  American.  His  visit  was  cur 
tailed  to  the  length  of  a  fashionable  call,  and  on  his 
return  home  he  said,  "Poet  ou  pas  poet,  faime  du 
linge  propre"  ("Poet  or  not  poet,  I  like  clean 
linen.") 

Longfellow  has  no  eccentricities,  except  the  one 
of  being  the  only  poet  in  the  world  who  avoids  every 
notoriety,  and  who  is  content  to  live  within  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  a  good  father,  and  a  plain, 
every-day  citizen,  never  thrusting  his  opinions  upon 
one,  never  vaunting  his  own  talent,  scarcely  refer 
ring,  by  word  or  deed,  to  anything  he  has  ever 
written,  and  ignoring,  with  delightful  modesty,  the 
fact  that  he  is  more  gifted  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world. 

I  ought  not  to  pay  him  the  poor  compliment,  to 
say  that  he  does  not  know  himself,  yet  1  have  often 
thought  that  he  really  does  not,  and  cannot  appre 
ciate  his  own  worth  and  talent. 

How  a  man  with  his  eminently  superior  knowl 
edge  and  education  can  maintain,  in  the  presence  of 
the  highest  or  lowest,  such  an  absolute  lack  of  self- 


76  Longfellow's    Character. 

consciousness,  passes  comprehension ;  yet  it  is  so. 
He  is  the  gentlest  and  most  modest  of  men,  yet,  at 
the  same  time,  clothed  with  a  dignity  and  self- 
respect  which  impresses  all,  and  never  once  borders 
on  the  egotistical. 

Bacon  says  "  a  man's  nature  is  best  perceived  in 
privateness,  for  there  is  no  affectation  in  passion,  for 
that  putteth  a  man  out  of  his  precepts,  and  in  a  new 
case  or  experiment,  for  there  custom  leaveth  him  ;" 
also,  "  that  those  are  happy  men  whose  natures  sort 
with  their  vocations." 

It  is  not  that  Longfellow  has  forced  a  habit  of 
softness  upon  himself.  He  has  ever  been  unassum 
ing  and  refined,  moderate  in  all  things,  and  perfectly 
self -poised.  Whatever  his  inner  consciousness  of  self 
may  be,  the  outer  world  rests  in  profound  ignorance 
and  admiration. 

^Esop's  story  of  the  cat  who  was  changed  into  a 
maiden  shows  how  far  people  can  trust  their  natures. 
She  was  in  every  way  a  decorous  damsel,  until  a 
mouse  ran  out  from  a  corner  before  her,  and  from 
thenceforward  the  charms  of  young  ladyhood  were 


Longfellow's   Character.  77 

forgotten,  for  the  cat  nature  was  soon  resuscitated 
into  an  immortal  tabby. 

Those  who  make  an  effort  to  appear  what  they 
are  not,  and  to  completely  change  "what  is  born  in 
the  bone,"  might  have  need  of  JEsop's  warning ;  but 
in  our  poet's  case  it  seems  to  me  entirely  lost,  and  I 
have  only  made  use  of  the  simile  in  order  to  place  in 
greater  relief  the  beauty  of  his  real  character.  He 
makes  no  imposition  on  a  wayward  nature,  but  sim 
ply  lives  out  'the  life  that  has  reached  perfection  by 
a  continual  following  up  of  inherent  principle.  His 
aim  towards  the  good,  rather  than  the  corrupt,  is 
shown  in  his  observance  of  the  beautiful  faith  which 
commands  us  "  to  love  our  neighbor  as  ourself,"  the 
inborn  honesty  and  straightforwardness  of  his  soul, 
and  the  well-tempered  justice  that  yields  every  one 
his  right  to  be  thought  an  "  honest  man  until  he  is 
convicted  a  thief." 

In  the  smallest  as  well  as  greatest  circumstances 
of  life  Longfellow  is  incapable  of  subterfuge,  mis- 
statement,  clap-trap,  or  make-believe.  He  enjoys  with 
real  humor  anything  that  is  funny  while  it  does  not 


78  Longfellow  s   Character. 

trespass  on  the  bounds  of  decency  or  good  taste,  but 
a  suspicion  of  aught  else  immediately  causes  him  to 
close  the  almost  wholly  opened  portals  of  counte 
nance.  He  retires  within  himself  in  a  half-anxious 
way  that  shows  the  infinite  sensitiveness  and  suscep 
tibility  of  his  nature.  I  do  not  mean  that  even  the 
hardiest  person  would  attempt  to  say  anything  in  his 
presence  that  could  not  be  said  in  a  fashionable 
drawing-room ;  but  Longfellow  is  peculiar  in  his 
tastes,  and  many  things  that  would  raise  a  smile  in 
accepted  circles,  finds  no  answering  smile  in  his 
heart. 

A  very  good  idea  of  his  appreciation  of  the  in 
nocently  ridiculous,  is  in  the  description  of  the 
aesthetic  tea  at  the  house  of  Frau  Kranich,  in  "  Hy 
perion,"  commencing  with  the  one  hundred  and  sev 
enty-sixth  page. 

The  Moldavian  Prince  Jerkin  makes  his  way 
through  the  crowds,  being  anxious  to  show  off  his 
English.  In  his  haste  he  begins  with  a  mistake, 
saluting  Paul  Flemming  thus  : 

"  Good-bye !  Good-bye !  Mr.  Flemming,"  said  he, 


Longfclloivs    Character.  79 

instead  of  good  evening.  "I  am  ravished  to  see 
you  in  Ems ;  nice  place ;  -  -  all  that  there  is  of 
most  nice.  I  drink  my  water  and  am  good.  Do 
you  not  think  the  Frau  Kranich  has  a  very  beautiful 
leather?" 

Who  would  ever  divine  that  the  prince  referred 
to  the  gracious  lady's  skin  ? 

This  chapter  is  replete  with  evidences  of  Long 
fellow's  brightness,  and  quick  appreciation  of  wit  in 
others.  Near  the  end  of  the  chapter  on  "  Glimpses 
in  Cloud  Land,"  the  professor  speaks  on  time  thus : 

"For  what  is  time?  The  shadow  on  the  dial— 
the  striking  of  the  clock — the  running  of  the  sand- 
day  and  night— Summer  and  Winter — months, 
years,  centuries— these  are  but  arbitrary  and  out 
ward  signs,  the  measure  of  time,  not  time  itself. 
Time  is  the  life  of  the  Soul.  If  not  this,  then  tell 
me,  what  is  Time  V 

The  professor  shrieks  this  aloud  in  a  high  voice, 
and  the  baron,  half  awakened,  hearing  the  word 
"  time,"  innocently  exclaims  ; 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  near  midnight." 


CHAPTER   Y, 
A  MORNING'S  OCCUPATION. 

"  Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begun, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose." 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

44  That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure, 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought.1' 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 

HE  professor  is  an  early  riser,  and  at  nine 
the  family  assembles  for  breakfast.     The 
dining-room     looks    out    on     the     back 
terrace,  and  from  there  beyond  to  the  sea. 
The  weather  was  beautiful,  and  the  sun  poured  a 

continuous  shower  of  iridescent  rays  into  the  apart- 
[80] 


A  Mornings  Occupation.  81 

ment.  They  danced  lightly  hither  and  thither,  at 
times  making  a  shining  halo  above  the  poet's  snowy 
head,  anon  falling  lightly  on  the  golden  braids  of 
Edith,  Mrs.  Dana,  or  flinging  a  defiant  aureole  above 
the  brow  of  Mr.  T.  Gr.  Appleton,  who  is  the  poet's 
vis-d-vis  at  table. 

One  thing  particularly  noticeable  is  the  quaint 
ceremony  which  is  never  entirely  done  away  with  in 
this  family.  Each  person  addresses  the  other  with 
well-bred  deference,  and  the  familiarity  that  some 
times  excuses  a  "  thanks  "  or  "if  you  please  "  among 
one's  own,  here  is  conspicuous  for  its  absence. 

Of  the  poet's  own  family  there  were  present  his 
two  daughters,  Miss  Annie,  the  younger,  and  Mrs. 
Richard  Dana  (Edith),  and  her  husband,  the  second 
of  the  "  trio,"  Mr.  T.  G.  and  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton, 
Mr.  Longfellow's  brothers-in-law,  and  among  the 
guests  the  charming  and  talented  artiste,  Miss  Susan 
Hale,  and  Mr.  Craig,  of  New  York. 

You  may  imagine  that  the  fine  weather  put  every 
body  in  good  spirits,  and  the  table  was  enlivened  by 

appropriate  small-talk,  plans  for   the   day,  and   the 
4* 


82  A  Mornings  Occupation. 

usual  inquiries  of  how  the  "  night  was  passed." 
Longfellow  takes  some  of  the  tea  before  mentioned 
at  early  breakfast,  a  bit  of  toast,  and  perhaps  an  egg, 
either  poached  or  sur-le-plat.  He  eats  so  little  that 
one  can  scarcely  perceive  of  what  consists  his  repast. 
He  is  cheerful,  good-humored,  and  devoid  of  fancies 
as  regards  his  own  health,  yet  never  for  a  moment 
treats  those  of  others  lightly.  Conversation  rarely 
drags,  and  the  slightest  possible  break  is  adroitly 
covered  by  the  ready  grace  of  the  professor. 

The  eldest  at  table,  lie  might  be  the  youngest. 
It  is  impossible  to  imagine,  without  having  passed 
some  time  in  the  presence  of  this  wonderful  man, 
how  great  are  his  resources,  and  what  youthful  vigor 
animates  his  every  thought  and  action. 

While  he  speaks  with  the  experience  of  ripened 
years,  he  yet  invests  every  subject  with  the  enthusi 
asm  of  Paul  Flemming,  and  the  graceful  flowing 
utterance  of  a  poet.  The  tender  fancies,  the  soft 
expressions  and  ready  imagination  of  the  bard  color 
all  his  thoughts,  and  their  outward  expression  is  no 
less  happy.  The  most  commonplace  subjects  receive 


A  Morning  s  Occupation.  83 


a  new  interest,  when  either  argued  or  discussed  by 
the  professor,  and  no  question  once  entered  upon  is 
ever  dismissed  without  its  full  mete  of  attention. 

After  breakfast  a  general  sally  takes  place 
through  the  French  window,  and  the  broad  balcony 
is  soon  peopled  with  animated  faces,  foremost 
among  them  that  of  the  poet.  He  sits  at  a  round 
table  drawn  up  near  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  with  a 
light  mantle  thrown  across  his  shoulders  to  protect 
him  from  the  sea-breeze,  which  is  always  strong  and 
brisk  at  Nahant.  The  pile  of  letters  and  periodicals 
is  almost  appalling.  The  lion's  share  is  his,  and  he 
speedily  commences  his  morning's  work,  in  the  de 
vastation  of  the  mass.  Unlike  most  people,  the 
poet  rarely  scans  the  envelope  before  opening,  in 
order  to  know  the  signature  of  the  letter.  He  de 
liberately  cuts  through  the  upper  ledge  with  a  paper 
knife,  and  methodically  extracts  the  inclosed  mis 
sive. 

Occasionally  an  exclamation  will  break  from  his 
lips,  such  as,  "Dear  me,"  ''Just  look  at  this," 
"  How  am  I  to  get  through  so  long  a  letter,"  etc., 


84  A  Mornings  Occupation. 


etc.  Many  send  him  original  poems  begging  him 
to  read  them  and  respond  quickly  as  to  his  opinion 
of  their  talent,  while  others,  less  modest,  kindly  in 
vite  him,  after  reading,  to  be  good  enough  to  cor 
rect  or  alter  the  MSS.  in  any  way  to  suit  himself. 
The  poet  attempts  to  read  each  effort,  and  only 
when  too  unworthy  does  he  give  up  in  despair,  with 
a  sigh  the  luckless  MSS.  is  replaced  on  the  table, 
and  another  taken  up,  shares  the  same  fate.  The 
letters  requesting  autographs  are  many,  and  always 
responded  to  with  the  desired  signature. 

By  the  way,  what  a  beautiful  calligraphy  his  is. 
Slightly  back-handed,  with  neat,  distinct  lettering, 
prominent  capitals,  and  ingenuous  small  letters,  each 
one  made  in  just  such  a  way  and  with  just  so  much 
precision.  When  he  begins  writing  one  detects  a 
slight  undulation  in  the  descending  -stroke,  as  if  the 
strong  quill  were  not  quite  firmly  held  for  an  instant, 
then  on,  steadily,  until  it  finishes  each  letter  with  firm 
ness  and  exactitude.  There  are  no  marked  signs  of 
the  professional  ilourisher,  no  heavily  shaded  letters, 
no  inequality  in  their  size.  Each  figure  has  careful 


A  Mornings  Occupation.  85 

justice  rendered  it,  and  a  perfectly  legible,  honest 
handwriting  is  the  result.  The  vowels  are  also 
quite  prominent,  the  consonants  all  duly  weighed. 
How  many  in  this  world  commit  wholesale  robbery 
in  the  item  of  dots  and  crossing  of  t's,  while  a 
shameful  disrespect  is  vouchsafed  more  than  one  of 
the  cabalistic  twenty-six  that  form  the  glory  of  our 
English  alphabet. 

Many  people  profess  to  be  able  to  read  character 
from  handwriting.  I  think  in  Longfellow's  case 
the  task  would  be  an  easy  one.  Would  that  all  the 
world  paid  the  attention  that  he  does  to  detail.  He 
evinces  a  special  affection  for  small  things,  and 
nothing  worth  doing  is  so  trivial  that  all  due  atten 
tion  is  not  paid  it.  I  never  saw  a  blot  upon  his 
paper,  a  word  erased  by  that  species  of  barred-gate- 
ism  that  reminds  one  of  the  prisoner's  window  in 
the  trial  by  Pontius  Pilate,  or  one  of  those  un 
healthy  daubs  that  is  the  conventional  obliteration 
of  a  word  that  has  lost  its  usefulness  for  the 
quondam  writer. 

Longfellow  is  especially  pleased  with  letters  from 


86  A  Mornings  Occupation. 

children,  and  wlien  well  written  lie  even  grows 
enthusiastic.  He  reads  and  re-reads  with  pleasure, 
and  many  are  the  flattering  comments  that  I  have 
heard  after  the  perusal  of  some  juvenile  effort.  I 
think  the  poet,  while  appreciating  the  honors  and 
attention  received  from  the  old,  is  no  less  touched 
by  the  admiration  of  the  little  ones.  Speaking  of 
attention,  I  must  say  that  lii^li  or  low,  rich  or  poor, 
receive  the  same  tribute  of  courtesy  irom  the  poet, 
in  response  to  an  implied  or  outspoken  compliment. 
Whatever  comes  from  the  heart  appeals  directly 
to  his  own  delicate  sense  of  feeling,  and  the  slightest 
attempt  on  the  part  of  any  one  to  render  himself 
agreeable  is  not  lost  or  unnoticed  by  him  ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  more  faintly  manifested  the  praise,  the 
greater  is  his  satisfaction.  All  of  the  letters  ad 
dressed  to  him  are  more  or  less  complimentary. 
Those  with  the  bare-faced  element  predominating 
are  received  and  read  in  silence,  while  others  of 
modified  expression  seem  really  to  please  hiir... 

After  the  correspondence  is  gone  through  with 
he  turns  to  the  daily  papers,  and  from  these  to  the 


A  Morning  s  Occupation.  87 

magazines  and  monthlies,  of  which  there  is  an  unend 
ing  stock.  I  remember  on  this  particular  day  he  was 
much  amused,  and  as  often  shocked,  by  reading  an 
article  on  epitaphs  that  was  going  the  rounds  of  the 
papers.  Some  were  given  aloud  for  our  benefit,  and 
the  comments  were  one  and  all  noticeable.  The 
professor  straightened  out  the  paper,  adjusted  his 
glasses,  and  read  with  a  distinct  voice.  It  was  curious 
to  listen  to  the  intonations  and  the  half-deprecative 
utterance  when  the  thing  was  too  irreverent,  also  to 
follow  the  humorous  half-laugh  that  betrayed  itself 
in  his  voice  when  a  really  witty  thing  was  unearthed. 
The  following  are  among  the  amusing  ones  that  the 
professor  read  aloud  : 

ON  THOMAS  WOODCOCK. 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Thomas  Woodfo/i 
The  most  amiable  of  husbands,  and  excellent  of  men." 

N.  B.—  His  real  name   was   Woodcock,    but    it  wouldn't 
come  in  rhyme. — His  widow. 

ON  A  BREWER. 

"  Poor  John  Scott  lies  buried  here; 
Tho'  once  he  was  both  hale  and  stout, 
Death  stretched  him  on  his  bitter  bier, 
In  another  world  he  hops  about." 


88  A    Mornings    Occupation. 

The  following  is  from  a  German  to  a  stone-cut 
ter,  to  be  put  on  his  wife's  tomb : 

"  My  wife  Susum  is  dead ;  if  she  had  life  till  next  Friday, 
she'd  been  dead  shust  two  weeks.  As  a  tree  falls  so  must 
she  stand.  All  things  is  impossible  mit  God." 

THO.  KEMP  ON  SHEEP  STEALING-. 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Thos.  Kemp 
Who  lived  by  wool,  but  died  by  hemp; 
There's  nothing  would  suffice  this  glutton, 
But,  with  the  fleece,  t;>  steal  the  mutton; 
Had  lie  but  worked  and  lived  uprighter 
He'd  ne'er  been  hung  for  a  sheep  biter." 

The  poet's  voice  ceased,  and  lie  kid  down  the 
paper,  commenting  at  the  same  time  upon  the  great 
waste  of  space  in  the  newspapers  of  to-day,  besides 
the  baleful  habit  of  making  light  of  death,  and  topics 
that  should  only  suggest  serious  thought.  He  said 
that  where  one  of  these  so-called  curious  epitaphs 
might  be  admissible,  a  thousand  were  irreverent,  even 
sacrilegious  ;  where  one  was  touchingly  and  innocently 
amusing,  another  was  simply  low,  and  scarcely  com 
ical  enough  to  bo  interesting.  "  I  often  read  bits," 
he  said,  "  that  wonderment  afterwards  causes  me  to 


A    Mornings   Occupation.  89 

ask  '  however  can  sucli  a  thing  come  to  be  printed.' 
Although,"  adding,  with  his  usual  justice,  "  it  is  no 
sign,  because  I  do  not  appreciate  it,  that  a  reason  did 
not  exist  for  its  having  been  written  ;  and  many  in 
the  world  may  like  and  admire  what  I  could  not  give 
a  second  thought  to  ;  still,  I  do  not  in  general  enjoy 
levity  in  connection  with  sacred  subjects." 

A  slight  controversy  here  ensued,  and  from  epi 
taphs  we  veered  around  to  poetry.  Up  to  the  pres 
ent  time  I  had  taken  but  little  share  in  the  conversa 
tion.  A  momentary  lull  gave  me  a  chance  to  speak, 
and  not  interrupt. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  deliberately,  when  all  had  finished, 
"  there  is  no  accounting  for  the  rubbish  that  will  in 
spite  of  judicious  weeding  find  its  way  to  publicity ; 
the  authors  are  never  known,  and  perhaps  it  is  as 
well.  I  can  at  present  only  call  to  mind  one  instance, 
under  the  head  of  poetry,  which  runs  as  follows  :  or" 
—I  stopped  with  an  inquiring  look  around,  and  half 
hesitatingly  ventured  to  retract  my  implied  idea  of 
repeating  it.  In  vain— an  earnest  u  Pray  go  on," 
"  continue,"  in  whicli  the  professor's  voice  was  upper- 


A    Mornings    Occupation. 


most  in  the  chorus,  positively  insisted  on  hearing  the 
aforesaid  "  rubbish  ;  "  clearing  my  throat,  I  began  — 

''There  was  a  little  durl, 

And  she  had  a  little  curl 
That  hung  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead, 

When  she  was  dood, 

She  was  very  dood  indeed, 
But  when  she  was  bad  she  was  horrid." 

I  looked  up  triumphantly  as  the  last  line  rang  out. 
Depict,  imagine,  my  confusion  when  the  poet  raised 
his  eyes,  and  with  a  faint  smile,  said  :  "  Why  !  those 
are  my  words,  are  they  not,  Annie,"  turning  to  his 
youngest  daughter,  who  at  that  moment  was  grace 
fully  coming  through  the  low  window  opening  out 
on  the  terrace,  at  the  same  time  repeating  the  identi 
cal  rhythm  that  but  a  moment  before  1  had  signalized 
as  a  sample  of  "  rubbish."  Miss  Annie  looked  up 
laughingly,  and  said  in  her  cheery  voice,  "Why,  of 
course,  papa,  that  comes  in  your  nursery  collection. 
Don't  you  remember  when  Edith  was  a  little  girl  and 
didn't  want  to  have  her  hair  curled,  you  took  her  up 
in  your  arms,  and  shaking  your  finger  at  her,  com 
menced,  '  There  was  a  little  girl,'  "  etc.,  etc. 


A    Mornings    Occitpation.  91 


The  poet  laughed,  they  all  laughed,  and  I,  in  spite 
of  my  discomfiture,  joined  in  the  general  merriment. 
Had  I  not  insisted  strenuously  that  the  "  lines  went  the 
rounds,"  and  would  never  die  out  along  with  other 
rubbish,  the  discovery  to  me  of  their  real  authorship 
would  not  have  been  so  awkward  ;  but  to  declare  to 
a  gentleman's  face  an  opinion  which  at  best  could 
have  little  real  value,  and  that  opinion  anything  but 
flattering,  tried  me  sorely.  The  poet  is  so  good- 
natured  that  he  said  nothing ;  but  it  was  impossible 
not  to  laugh.  It  was  one  of  those  coincidences  that 
occur  when  least  expected.  Yet  rarely  does  one 
"  get  come  up  with  "  in  such  a  brutally  matter-of- 
fact  way.  I  still  think  my  mental  equilibrium  was 
greatly  disturbed,  and  my  self-esteem  dropped  lower 
and  lower  into  the  depths  of  humiliation.  Why  on 
earth  had  E  not  stumbled  on  some  other  simile  ?  But 
no,  to  add  to  my  perplexity,  Mr.  Nathan  asked  me 
pleasantly  if  I  "  could  remember  any  more  of  the  same 
kind,"  and  then  we  all  got  to  laughing  in  real  earnest. 
It  was  too  funny,  and  I  forgot  my  own  discomfiture  in 
watching  the  evident  enjoyment  of  the  professor. 


A    Mornings    Occupation. 


First,  he  was  grave,  then  a  ripple  stole  from  his 
lips  in  a  half  unconscious  way,  until  finally,  yielding 
to  the  general  impulse  toward  risibility,  it  broke  irre 
sistibly  out  like  a  mountain  rivulet.  Timidly  at  first 
it  leaves  nature's  bed,  and  as  it  flows  onward,  flows 
itself  out  ever  in  greater  strength,  until  it  joins  a 
rushing  torrent  that  carries  everything  before  it. 
Just  so  is  the  professor's  laugh.  Faint  at  first,  then 
breaking  into  a  series  of  hearty  cadences  that  give 
one  a  pleasant  sensation  on  hearing  them  ;  when  he 
finishes,  a  half  sigh  follows  the  last  little  gurgle,  and 
a  homely  "  dear  me,  how  I  do  laugh,"  restores  the 
speaking  countenance  to  its  own  former  likeness. 

How  few  have  a  sympathetic  smile  !  how  few  a 
sympathetic  laugh!  and  again,  how  many  make  a 
sounding-board  of  the  roof  of  their  mouth,  which 
echoes  successive  shrieks  of  merriment,  while  the 
face  expresses  any  other  sentiment  than  that  of  fun. 
Others,  vice  versa,  betray  in  every  feature  the  half 
suppressed  laughter  that  threatens  momentarily  to 
burst  all  bounds,  and  through  the  natural  outlet 
communicates  itself  to  all  present.  The  world  is 


A    Mornings    Occupation.  93 

full  of  sad  hearts  and  faces,  but  we  welcome  with 
joy  the  advent  of  any  individual  with  the  natural 
attribute  of  a  wholesome,  hearty,  joyous  and  uncon 
strained  laugh. 

Such  is  the  natural  gift  of  God  that  few  are  the 
enviable  possessors  of,  and  it  is  one  of  the  many 
that  endow  our  great  poet.  While  he  rarely  ex 
presses  his  feelings  impulsively,  he  still  yields  him 
self  up  wholly  to  the  charm  of  the  moment,  and 
whatever  mirthful  deserves  a  genuine  laugh,  the 
professor  tenders  his  tribute  with  unstint  of  gracious- 
ness,  and  in  so  honest  a  way  that  it  does  one's  heart 
good  to  see  and  hear  him. 

How  I  have  wandered  from  our  morning's  real 
business !  Apropos  of  the  poem  aforesaid,  some 
one  suggested  to  me  the  thought  of  revenge,  and 
with  a  little  of  the  inherent  viciousness  in  woman 
the  suggestion  was  eagerly  carried  out,  the  poet 
waiting  courteously  to  give  me  my  "  revanche"  I 
dared  to  respond  "  that  my  gross  blunder  was  inex 
cusable,  and  a  possibility  of  such  ever  arising  in 
future,  could  only  be  avoided  in  one  way.  In  order 


94  A    Mornings   Occupation. 

not  to  be  mistaken  authors  must  feel  the  value  of 
putting  their  name  to  everything  they  write,  even 

when  that  name  be  -    Longfellow." 

I,  with  the  common  herd,  cannot  always  appre 
ciate,  but  out  of  deference  to  a  name  all  the  world 
reveres  I  would  be  silent.  Under  the  circumstances, 
knowing  how  and  why  it  came  to  be  written,  my 
"  rubbish  * '  transmogrifies  itself  into  a  cunning  and 
appropriate  ballad. 


OHAPTEK   VI- 
LONGFELLOW'S  IDEA  OF  POETICAL  INFLUENCE. 

41  O  ye  dead  Poets  who  are  living  still 
Immortal  in  your  verse,  though  life  be  fled, 
And  ye,  O  living  Poets,  who  are  dead 
Though  ye  are* living,  if  neglect  can  kill, 
Tell  me  if  in  the  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
With  drops  of  anguish  falling  fast  and  red 
From  the  sharp  crown  of  thorns  upon  your  head, 
Ye  were  not  glad  your  errand  to  fulfill  ? 
Yes:  for  the  gift  and  ministry  of  song 
Have  something  in  them  so  divinely  sweet, 
It  can  assuage  the  bitterness  of  wrong; 
Not  in  the  clamor  of  the  crowded  street, 
Not  in  the  shouts  and  plaudits  of  the  throng, 
But  in  ourselves,  are  triumph  and  defeat." 

THE  POETS. 

HIS  morning  we  took  a  little  walk,  and 
the  poet,  who  had  slept  well,  seemed, 
strange  to  say,  nervous,  and  ill  at  ease. 
This  feeling  soon  wore  off,  for  who,  in 

the  presence  of  so  delightful  a  family  party,  could 

[95] 


96       Longfellow  s   Idea  of  Poetical  Influence. 


long  "  sit  in  sadness  "?  After  breakfast,  he  was  en 
livened  by  numerous  visitors,  and  sat  on  the  balcony 
receiving  his  guests  with  great  vivacity  and  evident 
pleasure.  From  the  adjoining  library  I  could  hear 
his  voice,  now  in  earnest,  now  in  lighter  talk,  but 
more  than  usually  gay. 

It  seemed  scarcely  a  wholesome  humor,  however, 
arid  I  could  frequently  detect  a  nervous  rising  in 
the  vibrating  tones,  that  was  not  habituary.  Hav 
ing  no  part  in  the  conversation  I  cculd  not  listen,  or 
even  stay  in  my  corner  when  my  work  was  finished, 
so  I  stole  away  until  we  met  at  luncheon. 

He  seemed  in  a  peculiarly  restless  state,  and 
spoke  with  quick  precision,  and  in  an  outspoken 
manner  that  was  even  beyond  his  usual  terseness, 
so  I  wondered  of  what  he  could  have  been  think 
ing.  He  ate,  as  usual,  the  slightest  possible  amount 
of  food,  and  seemed  watchful  of  every  word  that 
was  uttered  at  table.  We  adjourned  to  the  drawing- 
room  accompanied  by  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton,  and 
Mr.  Craig,  a  young  gentleman  who  was  visiting  the 
poet  at  the  time,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  general 


Longfelloivs   Idea  of  Poetical  Influence.       97 

conversation  began.  There  were  some  fresh  flowers 
on  the  table,  and  thinking  one  to  be  a  camellia,  I 
remarked  upon  its  odorless  beauty,  and  asked  the 
poet  if  he  had  ever  read  "  La  Dame  aux  Camelias," 
by  Alexander  Dumas,  Jr.  He  spoke  up  quickly, 
answering, 

"  No ;  I  commenced  it,  but  could  not  continue, 
as  it  seemed  to  me  a  book  for  unhealthy  appetites. 
I  doubt  not  there  is  much  that  is  fine  in  it,  as  Dumas 
is  a  man  of  extraordinary  imagination  and  skill,  but 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  read  such  works  as  'La 
Dame  aux  Camelias.'  r 

He  went  on  with  increasing  warmth, 
"  Now,  there  is  another  French  writer  whose 
books  have  probably  been  read  by  millions,  but  to 
whose  writing  I-  can  never  turn  with  pleasure.  I 
speak  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  a  man  with  a  God-given, 
beautiful  talent,  but  all  for  the  bad.  I  often  think 
of  what  he  might  have  done  in  the  world,  had  his 
mind  been  on  anything  pure  or  virtuous.  Look  at 
'  Holla '  '  une  nuit  de  Mai,'  could  more  inspired 
or  exquisite  language  have  found  its  way  into 


98       Longfellow  s   Idea  of  Poetical  Influence. 

verse?  yet  mark  the  intent  of  the  poem.  I  read, 
and  read  on,  half  fascinated  by  the  flowing  grace, 
passion  and  eloquence  of  his  rhythm,  then  some 
startling  outburst  of  infidelity  shocks  me  so  that 
1  leave  the  book  with  horror,  and  say  to  my 
soul,  <  How  sad  !  a  beautiful  talent  gone  to  waste ;  a 
brilliant  imagination  seeing  only  the  spectacle  of 
ribaldry  and  infamy;  a  bright  spark  of  genius, 
growing  and  passing  its  life  grovelling  amongst  the 
tares  of  a  dissolute  and  morally  unhealthy  clime.' 
He  is  to  me  a  heart-rending  example  of  the  uses  to 
which  a  man  may  dedicate  a  great  gift  originally  of 
divine  import,  whose  whole  life  and  writings  are 
made  up  of  worldliness,  license  and  innate  cravings 
after  unhealthy  mental  food.  His  words  pander 
to  the  vilest  taste,  while  the  beauty  with  which  he 
clothes  his  ideas  is  undeniable.  Even  in  some  of 
his  most  violent  outbursts,  he  does  not  divest  his 
pages  of  charm,  and  exquisite  wording.  He  seems 
to  have  lived  with  a  gloss  of  utter  indifference  to 
any  faith  covering  a  soul  that  I  have  often  hoped 
was  not  so  barren  as  he  himself  painted  it.  I  de- 


Longfellow  s   Idea  of  Poetical  Influence.     .  99 

pi  ore  with  my  whole  heart  such  a  mistaken  life, 
that  had  within  it  the  wherewith  to  be  something 
great  and  true.  Only  think  !  had  he  described  good 
with  the  eloquence  and  sincerity  that  he  bestowed 
on  vice,  what  a  benefit  he  would  have  been  to  the 
world,  and  what  a  series  of  powerful  arguments  he 
would  have  wielded  for  mankind,  with  a  brain  and 
pen  that  followed  each  other  in  such  a  headlong  tor 
rent  of  irresistible  poetry  ?  One  might  overlook  an 
occasional  skepticism,  but  no  one  with  any  respect 
for  virtue  and  goodness  could  remain  unmoved 
while  reading  any  one  of  his  poems.  His  fanatical 
tendency  to  scoff  and  laugh  to  scorn  the  slightest 
thing  that  is  good,  is  a  terrible  power  in  the  hands 
of  a  man  of  genius.  As  a  student  I  read,  but  as  a 
God-fearing  man,  I  lament." 

Never  had  I  heard  the  poet  speak  with  greater 
warmth,  and  so  anxious  was  I  to  hear  more,  that 
when  he  continued  the  subject  of  poets  and  poetical 
license,  I  took  the  liberty  of  defending  them  in  a 
moderate  way. 

"  You  are   wrong,"  he   said,  decidedly,    "  when 


TOO     Longfellow's  Idea  of  Poetical  Influence. 

one  finds  in  writing  that  his  imagination  is  running 
away  with  him,  it  is  time  to  stop  ;  I  always  did." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  quickly,  "you  show  in  your  writ 
ings  often—  '  but  I  stopped  shamefacedly.  Did  I 
dare  to  criticise  Longfellow  ? 

He  looked  up  eagerly  and  said, 

"  Pray,  don't  stop ;  what  were  you  going  to  re 
mark  about  my  writings  ?  I  should  like  your  opinion." 
Then  he  assumed  a  curious  attitude  of  interest  and 
impatience. 

I  could  no^  back  out  ingloriously,  so  went  on  : 

"  In  your  writings  1  find  a  want  of  laisser  oiler, 
that  in  the  poetic  sense  often  hastens  a  climax. 
When,  by  some  outburst  of  passion,  you  work  your 
reader  up  to  fever  heat,  you  quietly  leave  the  dan 
gerous  ground,  and  instead  of  an  unlimited  outpour 
of  intense  feeling,  one  has  to  be  satisfied  with  sim 
pler  and  more  modified  expressions.  Still  even  you, 
yourself,  cannot  always  hide  the  deep  under-current 
of  passion  that  runs  surreptitiously  through  your 
verse,  and  almost  threatens,  at  times,  to  break  the 
bounds." 


Longfellow's    Idea  of  Poetical  Influence.     101 

"  But  it  never  does,"  interrupted  the  poet,  ex 
citedly.  "  I  understand  what  you  mean,  but  I 
always  try,  whenever  my  fancy  leads  me  on,  to  have 
a  due  regard  for  outward  form.  I  could  not  write 
that  which  poetic  license  permits  if  it  goes 
against  my  conscience  and  teachings.  But  pray  let 
us  speak  of  some  one  else  rather  than  myself, 
although  you  will  understand,  some  day,  why  I  speak 
thus." 

Mr.  Nathan  Appleton  came  up  and  touched  my 
shoulder,  for  with  the  poet's  words  we  had  risen,  and 
as  I  supposed,  conversation  for  that  day  was  at  an 
end.  I  was  just  going  out  when  his  brother-in-law 
spoke. 

"  You  have  told  him  the  truth,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
think,  in  twenty  years,  no  one  has  ever  said  as  much 
to  him ;  but  mind,  he  has  not  finished  with  you,  and 
to-morrow,  or  later  to-day,  you  will  have  his  answer." 

He  then  went  out,  and  I  returned  to  iny  room  to 
reflect  on  what  I  had  said  almost  too  abruptly  to  the 
dear  old  poet.  I  had  often  thought  of  this,  yet 
never  dreamed  that,  in  the  heat  of  conversation,  my 


IO2     Longfelloivs  Idea  of  Poetical  Influence. 

headlong  talk  would  have  resulted  in  such  plain 
speaking.  I  realized  how  much  superior  to  all  things 
was  this  man's  sense  of  right  and  honor,  and  how, 
perhaps,  he  had,  at  times,  sacrificed  many  an  idea 
that  would  have  formed,  in  Byron,  an  innocent 
glory.  Before  going  in  to  dinner,  we  met  on  the 
terrace.  He  came  directly  to  me,  put  out  his  hands, 
and  said,  with  a  sweet  voice  but  reproachful  accents, 

"  You  speak  with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  hut 
even  had  I  the  inclination,  one  could  scarcely  expect 
me  to  lie  awake  at  night  writing  things  that  would 
set  a  bad  example  to  a  class  of  thirty  young  men 
whom  I  had  to  teach  in  the  morning.  Heaven  be 
praised !  I  tried  at  least  to  be  guided  by  the  right 
spirit." 

I  was  not  surprised  with  the  poet's  outspoken 
words  regarding  Alfred  de  Musset,  for  any  one  who 
had  ever  known  Longfellow  and  the  June  atmos 
phere  of  his  home-life,  could  readily  understand  his 
condemnation  of  that  poet's  mode  of  living,  and  the 
unsavory  sentiment  with  which  his  poems  were 
filled. 


Longfellow  s   Idea  of  Poetical  Influence.     103 

De  Musset  lived  at  a  time  when  virtue  was  almost 
a  fiction  in  France,  and  his  dissolute  habits,  and  con 
stant  companionship  with  scoffers   and  unbelievers, 
was  not  calculated  to  turn  his  mind  readily  into  a 
better  channel.     He  was  born  the  eleventh  of  De 
cember,  1810,  in  the  old  part  of  Paris,  in  a  street 
near  the  Hotel  Cluny.     The   house   still  bears  the 
number,  33  Rue  des  Noyers.     He  died  a  little  past 
midnight   of  May  ,1,   1857,   two   months   after  his 
reception  and  entrance  into  the  French  Academy. 
At  the  age  of  forty-seven,  brilliant  in  all  intellectual 
attainments,  but  physically  a  wreck,  the  life  that 
had  been  so  full  of  promise  and  bright  hopes,  and  so 
covered  with  questionable  glory,  was  sapped  at  its 
roots  by  the  grim  monster,  consumption,  and  at  an 
early  day  his  family  feared  he  would  be  one  of  its 
victims.     His   poetic  taste  showed  itself  at  a  very 
tender  age,   and  before  he  was  eighteen  he    had 
already  published  something  of  account.     "  Eolla  "  is 
one  of  his  most  touching  poems,  others  also  breathe, 
in  certain  lines,  a  spirit  of  unbelief  and  atheism  appal 
ling  to  read,  and  sad  to  think  about  as  coming  from 


IO4     Longfellow  s  Idea  of  Poetical  Influence. 

the  soul  of  a  young  man  divinely  gifted.  He  was 
only  twenty-three  when  this  was  published  in  the 
famous  Parisian  monthly,  "  Revue  des  deux 
Mondes"  and  from  that  time  forth  his  works 
followed  each  other  in  quick  succession.  "For- 
tunio,"  "la  Nuit  de  Mai,"  "  la  Nuit  de  Decembre," 
"  To  Ninon,"  "  A  Confession,"  "  A  Letter  to  Lamar- 
tine,"  several  plays,  "  Caprice,"  a  translation  of 
Shakespeare's  "As  you  Like  It"  (comme  il  vous 
plaira),  a  quantity  of  lesser,  but  more  "  spirituelle " 
efforts,  and  in  a  second  volume  of  poems,  I  can 
readily  understand  his  own  preference,  given  to  his 
strongest  works — "  le  Fils  de  Titien,"  "  Lorenzaccio," 
and  "  Carmosine."  Besides  these,  with  prolific  and 
unimpaired  talent,  he  wrote,  until  his  death,  numer 
ous  sonnets,  essays  and  letters,  all  with  exquisite 
poetic  rhythm,  but  most  of  them  tainted  with  the 
dreadful  impurity  of  thought  and  association  that 
distinguishes  Alfred  de  Musset  from  a  great  galaxy 
of  French  writers,  the  most  talented,  the  most  bril 
liant,  but  the  most  hardened.  He,  among  few,  may 
fully  claim  the  title  "  genius,"  as  no  late  writer  of 


Longfellow  s   Idee  of  Poetical  Influence.     105 

the  nineteenth  century  has  ever  compared  with,  or 
exceeded  the  beauty  of  his  language,  or  style  of 
writing.  Victor  Hugo  is  unapproachable,  the  ac 
knowledged  king  of  French  poets,  and  in  speaking 
of  others  one  should  always  remember  that  he  takes 
precedent.  They  can  only  come  after,  but  Alfred 
de  Musset  follows  closely  in  his  footsteps.  He  gave 
to  the  world  so  striking  an  example  of  poetic  talent, 
that  he  may  be  considered  as  the  second  light  in  the 
French  firmament  of  literature.  Perhaps,  as  Long 
fellow  said,  had  his  own  every-daylife  been  different, 
one  might  have  discovered  a  healthier  tone  in  his 
rnind  pictures.  His  mode  of  living  must  have  been 
singularly  abasing  to  the  intellect,  and  harassing  to 
the  mental  and  physical  resources  of  the  man.  His 
nights  were  spent  in  feasting  and  orgy ;  his  days  in 
preparing  for  the  following  night.  His  truest  friends 
were  his  own  family,  but  he  paid  little  attention  to 
them.  He  probably  never  knew  the  refining  influ 
ence  of  the  lovo  of  one  good  woman,  and  even  his 
"  mattresses  "  were  fickle,  unfaithful,  and  interested. 
No  wonder  that  one  of  his  fitful  genius  arid  unsatia- 
5* 


106     Longfellow  s  Idea  of  Poetical  Influence. 

ble  appetite  for  sensational  scenes,  to-day  enjoyed 
the  society  of  ladies  such  as  Pauline  Viardot,  and 
to-morrow  wept  tears  of  sorrow  at  an  inflexible 
Ninon.  His  whole  existence,  from  the  time  when 
he  left  college  until  his  death,  seemed  one  raging 
whirlpool  of  immoderate  excess,  with  the  sentiments 
in  his  soul  warring  and  clashing  with  one  another. 
He  seemed  penetrated  by  ugliness  as  by  beauty,  and 
as  fascinated  with  one  as  with  the  other  ;  he  extolled 
virtue  with  the  same  breath  that  he  encouraged  vice, 
and  to  everything,  good  or  bad,  he  lent  the  charm  of 
his  inimitable  verse,  and  wrote,  alas,  with  equal 
enthusiasm  and  brilliancy,  no  matter  what  the  moral 
tendency  of  his  subject,  and  no  matter  in  what  ques 
tionable  light  it  presented  the  author  to  the  world. 
Few  writers  would  dare  say  what  Longfellow  has 
said,  yet  with  tender  pity  for  a  misled  life,  and  due 
appreciation  of  the  marvelous  influence  that  one 
with  "  a  divine  talent "  might  have  exercised,  had  he 
chosen  to  employ  his  gifts  for  the  benefit  of  man 
kind.  Longfellow  may  be  a  Puritan  in  one  sense  of 
the  word,  but  while  the  life  of  the  one  is  a  long 


Longfellow  s  Idea  of  Poetical  Influence.     107 


hymn  of  praise  to  the  great  Maker,  that  of  the  other 
is  lost  in  the  maelstrom  of  discord  and  unevermess. 
It  spent  itself  in  a  short  blaze  of  transcendent  glory, 
and  was  soon  obliterated  within  a  pall  of  densest 
smoke.  So  lives  the  name  and  memory  of  Alfred 
de  Musset.  His  genius  will  beguile,  but  his  works 
will  ever  grate  on  those  who  find  life,  as  does  Long 
fellow,  beautiful  in  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
LONGFELLOW'S  APPRECIATION  OF  PARODY. 

"  True,  his  songs  were  not  divine; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  reveled  in  his  line." 

OLIVER  BASSELIN. 


CAME  down-stairs  this  morning  still  think 
ing  of  our  late  conversation.  It  was  so 
early  that  no  one  was  yet  visible,  so  I  had  a 
fine  stroll  and  went  over  the  pretty  garden 
so  overrun  with  its  wealth  of  verdure.  All  the  while 
my  mind  kept  running  on  the  poet,  and  the  various 
conversations  that  we  had  had.  I  went  to  the  foot  of 
the  garden  and  cautiously  descending  a  very  narrow 
path,  prepared  to  lean  over  and  dip  my  hands  in  the 

salt  water  that  came  purring  up  so  lovingly  against 

[108] 


Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody.       109 

the  domesticated  rocks.  They  stood  there,  grim  old 
things,  as  if  all  their  life  consisted  in  growing  old 
gracefully,  with  a  quantity  of  green  vines  hanging  to 
them,  enlivened  by  the  daily  conversation  of  the  sea, 
and  the  friendly  waves  that  dashed  up  to  say  "  good 
morning ;"  with  a  few  old  family  friends  like  moss 
and  sea- weed,  who  never  left  them,  and  who  added,  to 
the  obligation  of  finding  a  shelter,  the  eternal  one  of 
staying  there  foraver. 

While  I  was  slipping  and  turning  about,  I  was 
startled  by  a  hearty  "Bon  jour!"  and  a  pleasant 
laugh. 

Looking  up,  I  saw  the  professor  at  his  open 
window,  looking  very  youthful,  and  gazing  down 
upon  me.  My  decidedly  ungraceful  attitude  must 
have  excited  his  risibilities,  for  he  looked  highly 
amused  at  something  and  said  quickly,  as  I  glanced 
about  me, 

"Oh,  don't  go  away,  I  am  coming  down 
directly." 

I  made  a  great  effort  and  clambered  back  to  meet 
him  on  a  more  substantial  footing. 


no       Longfelloivs  Appreciation  of  Parody. 

The  sight  of  nearly  all  the  family  gathered  on 
the  balcony,  reminded  me  that  perhaps  I  had  been  a 
little  long  in  my  solitary  rambling,  and  breakfast  was 
ready,  so  I  retraced  my  footsteps  towards  the  house. 
I  met  the  professor  in  the  front  hall,  and  we  went 
into  the  parlor  where  the  table  was  laid  out,  and, 
as  I  had  half  divined,  waiting 

Q 

The  poet  was  very  agreeable,  and  congratulated 
me  on  my  early  rising. 

u  I  am  up  betimes,  myself,"  he  said,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  that  you  have  outdone  me  this  morning,  how 
ever.  No  matter  how  late  I  am  up  at  night,  I  never 
can  sleep  later  the  following  morning.  I  usually 
wake  up  about  the  same  hour,  eight  o'clock." 

While  we  sat  at  table  Mr.  Appleton  began  one  of 
his  cheerful  anecdotes.  I  laughed,  and  he  said, 

"Pray  now,  madam,  don't  say  that  you  have 
heard  it  before,  as  you  would  spoil  a  good  story  for 
the  rest  of  us." 

Touched  by  such  a  picture  I  decided  to  sacri 
fice  myself,  and  he  continued  his  recital. 

"  Your  asking  if  I  had  heard  it,"  I  said,  "  reminds 


Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody.       1 1 1 

me  of  something  very  funny,  but  1  do  not  know  that 
I  can  tell  it  without  offending  the  poet.  It  is  a 
parody  on  one  of  his  poems." 

"  One  of  my  poems?"  said  Longfellow ;  "  I  would 
be  delighted  to  hear  it  rather  than  offended.  I  beg 
you  will  repeat  it." 

So  I  began  : 

"  A  long  time  ago  I  went  to  see  a  comical  musical 
farce  in  the  theater,  where  some  people  traveling  on 
the  Rhine  pass  a  dull  evening  with  snatches  of  song, 
quotations  from  famous  authors,  &e.  One  of  the 
travelers  asked  to  entertain  the  company,  gets  up  and 

begins — 

"  *  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us,' 

"  The  other  quietly  interrupts,  <  I  know  the  lines.' 
But  the  speaker,  continues, 

"  '  We  can  make  our  lives  sublime," 

"Vigorous  interruption  from  the  same  source,  */ 
know  the  lines  !  ' 

"  The  unabashed  reciter  keeps  composedly  on— 


1 1 2       Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody. 
*'  'And  in  dying  leave  behind  us' 

"  Threats  and  outcries  from  the  man  who  inter 
rupts, 

"  <  I  KNOW  THE  LINES  !  ' 

"  Then  together  they  joined  hands,  went  into  the 
steps  of  a  break-down,  and  shrieked  at  the  full  pitch 
of  their  lungs, — 

*'  'And  in  dying  leave  behind  us 

Foot-prints  with  our  seven-by-nines.'  " 

That  was  enough  for  the  poet.  He  broke  into 
shouts  of  laughter,  and  said  : 

"  Dear  me,  how  very  funny !  And  to  think  that 
J,  who  wrote  the  original,  never  conceived  so  soul- 
stirring  an  end  for  that  verse." 

"  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,"  said  some  one 
present,  "  your  feet  are  too  small  to  have  suggested 
it." 

"  Although,"  interrupted  the  poet,  "  my  feet  gen 
erally  fill  the  meter."  (Meter  is  the  French  for 
yard.) 


Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody.       1 1 3 

After  that,  the  expression  "I  know  the  lines," 
became  a  household  word. 

The  poet  continued  laughing  until  the  tears  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  blamed  himself  for  being,  as  he 
said,  so  childish.  Seeing  that  he  enjoyed  parody,  I 
told  him  about  an  evening  at  the  house  of  a  countess, 
in  Verona,  when  poor  Dante  had  a  new  rendering 
given  by  the  young  Count  P . 

Without  changing  a  word,  he  commenced, 

"  Nel  mezzo  del  cammin  di  nostra  vita  mi  ritro- 
vai  per  una  selva  oscura,"  etc.,  etc.,  "  die  la  diritta 
via  era  smarrita,"  and  gave  the  words  such  a  pecu 
liar  reading,  accompanied  by  appropriate  gestures, 
that  everybody  shouted  with  laughter;  at  the  word 
"vita"  (waist,  in  English),  he  spanned  his  own  sol 
dier-like  dimensions  with  such  effeminate  glee  that 
the  double  meaning  of  the  word  was  fully  apparent. 
But  the  climax  was  reached  when  he  prepared  to 
commence  the  third  stanza. 

Clearing  his  throat  he  began  to  talk,  but  stopped 
as  if  encountering  something  that  tasted  peculiar.  He 
kept  on  working  his  face  into  such  terrible  grimaces, 


114       Long  fellows  Appreciation  of  Parody. 

anon  rolling  his  eyes,  scraping  his  tongue,  and  fin 
ally  dropping  a  frantic  hand  over  the  pit  of  his 
stomach  with  a  gesture  of  such  utter  despair,  that 
nobody  \vas  surprised  when  the  words  came  out. 
"With  a  last  awful  shudder,  and  in  a  hysterical  shrill 
voice,  he  screamed,  "  Tanto  e  amaro,  che  poco  era 
piu  rnorte 

Before  I  could  finish  the  professor  was  con 
vulsed  ;  he  said,  "  No  wonder." 

"  *  Tanto  e  amaro,'  is  bitter  enough  in  Dante's 
own  forcible  language,  yet  see  how  without  chang 
ing  a  word  the  line  has  a  different  meaning  when 
accompanied  by  such  vivid  gestures.  I  laugh  now, 
what  would  it  have  been  had  I  been  in  Verona  that 
evening  ?" 

Longfellow,  who  had  followed  the  thread  of  the 
story,  was  prepared  for  it,  but  he  had  the  fit  on, 
and  could  not  control  his  emotion.  As  soon  as  he 
recovered  his  breath  he  would  break  out  anew,  and 
finally,  when  his  strength  was  exhausted,  he  said, 

"It   is   really   terrible   to  parodize  a  man   like 


Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody.       \  I  5 


Dante,  yet  it  is  funny,  and  I  must  enjoy  it  in  spite 
of  the  source." 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Nathan,  "  that  we  are  on  the 
subject  of  parodies,  you  must  hear  Mr.  Longfellow  on 
his  own  poems.  I  think  they  are  too  funny  not  to 
be  honored  with  a  mention.  Once  my  nephew 
Charles  came  to  pay  us  a  visit,  when  we  resided  in 
Lynn ;  I  think  about  fifteen  years  ago.  He  would 
come  in  a  sail-boat,  but  as  the  water  was  fearfully 
high,  the  frail  bark  capsized,  and  Master  Charles 
got  a  good  ducking.  When  he  reached  our  house 
he  was  a  sorry,  wet-looking  fellow  enough,  and,  of 
course,  had  to  change  his  clothes.  1  loaned  him  a 
pair  of  slippers  which  he  wore  home  in  lieu  of  boots, 
and  the  next  day  a  neat  parcel  came  over  from 
Nahant,  with  the  following  lines  written  on  the  out 
side  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  hand  : 

"  *  Slippers  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  the  bay  of  Lynn, 

A  forlorn  or  shipwrecked  nephew 

Seeing,  may  purloin  again." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  Mr.  Appleton's  recita- 


Ii6       Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody. 

tion,  and  we  all  agreed  that  the  poet  himself  "  knew 
the  lines." 

"  That  is  not  all,"  added  Mr.  Nathan  ;  "  I  remem 
ber  some  other  verses,  not  parody  exactly,  but  ex 
tremely  funny,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  all  like 
to  hear  them.  Permit  me,"  turning  to  the  poet. 

"  Nay,"  said  Mr.  Longfellow,  half  shamefacedly, 
"  I  think  that  I  am  becoming  too  prominent,  and 
perhaps " 

i;  There  are  no  perhaps's,"  returned  Mr.  Nathan, 
"  I  must  tell  this.  When  my  father  was  traveling 
in  Switzerland,  a  long  time  ago,  having  postilions, 
footmen,  etc.,  the  bills  were  frightful,  and  in  Zurich, 
even  heavier.  My  father  had  already  written  his 
name  in  the  visitors'  books  with  compliments  for 
the  lovely  place,  and  when  his  bill  was  brought  in 
he  regretted  his  undue  haste  and  amiability.  Mr. 
Longfellow  came  up  and  said, 

"  '  Pray,  let  me  add  my  autograph  and  treat  the 
landlord  as  he  merits.' 

"The  inn  was  called  '  The  Raven,'  and  Mr.  Long 
fellow  wrote  the  following  in  his  book  : 


Longfellow's  Appreciation  of  Parody.       1 1 7 

**  '  Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Zurich, 

'Tis  a  bird  of  omen  ill, 
With  an  ugly,  unclean  nest 
And  a  very,  very  long  bill.'  " 

This  time  even  the  professor  had  to  laugh.  He 
remembered  the  circumstance  too  well  to  forget  the 
impression  made  on  his  mind  by  the  landlord's  ex 
tortion,  and  he  added  to  Mr.  Nathan's  words  these  : 
u  I  am  afraid  that  page  wherein  those  lines  are  in 
scribed  is  not  the  first  shown  to  the  visitors  at  '  The 
Raven.'  I  never  went  there  again,  but  surely  we 
shall  never  forget  Zurich." 

Our  parodies  ended  with  a  quotation  from  an 
English  paper,  on  "  Hiawatha  :" 

"  Should  you  ask  me,  What's  its  nature  ? 
Ask  me,  What's  the  kind  of  poem  ? 
Ask  me  in  respectful  language, 
Touching  your  respectful  beaver, 
Kicking  back  your  manly  hind-leg, 
Like  to  one  who  sees  his  betters; 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
'Tis  a  poem  in  this  metre, 
And  embalming  the  traditions, 
Fables,  rites,  and  superstitions, 
Legends,  charms,  and  ceremonials 
Of  the  various  tribes  of  Indians, 


1 1 8       Longfellow  s  Appreciation  of  Parody. 

From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands 

Where  the  heron,  the  Shuli-shuh-gar, 

Finds  its  sugar  in  the  rushes: 

From  the  fast- decay  ing  nations, 

Which  our  gentle  Uncle  Samuel 

Is  improving  very  smartly, 

From  the  face  of  all  creation, 

Off  the  face  of  all  creation. 

"  Should  you  ask  in  >,  By  what  story, 
By  what  action,  plot,  or  fiction, 
All  these  matters  are  connected? 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
Go  to  Bogue  and  buy  the  poem, 
Published,  neatly,  at  one  shilling, 
Published,  sweetly,  at  five  shillings." 


CHAPTEK   VIII. 

LONGFELLOW   VISITS  JULES  JANIN. 

A  millstone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven  ever  round, 
If  they  have   nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must  themselves 
be  ground." 

THE  RESTLESS  HEART. 

"  Perchance  the  living  still  may  look 
Into  the  pages  of  this  book, 
And  sec  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Floating  and  fleeting  to  and  fro." 

END  TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 

rain  commenced  to  fall  about  noon,  and 
we  were  in  for  a  wet  day.     No  one  could 
go  out  of  doors,  and   even  the  favorite 
terrace  was  so  deluged  with  salt  spray  and 
mist,  that  it  was  quite  unsafe. 

The  professor  was  very  well,  and  seemed  to  enjoy 

the  gloomy  down-pour. 
[119] 


I2O  Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin. 


I  was  visibly  reminded  of  his  exquisite  poem, 
and  said  softly  to  myself : 

"  The  day  is  cold,  and  dark  and  dreary." 

He  interrupted  me  : 

"  You  are  trying  to  flatter  me,"  said  lie,  smiling  ; 
"  still  you  must  know  that  that  is  one  of  my  favorite 
poems." 

I  continued  to  repeat  a  portion,  until  he  looked 
up  with  a  quick  sense  of  humor,  and  said  : 

"  I  know  the  lines !"  After  that  we  all  laughed, 
and  there  were  no  more  poetic  quotations. 

After  luncheon  we  again  assembled  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  and  commenced  a  talk  and  discussion  on 
things  in  general. 

Longfellow  is  a  charming  conversationalist,  and 
it  was  peculiar  that  while  he  spoke,  with  the  greatest 
beauty  and  ease,  seven  languages,  he  never  inter 
larded  a  word  from  one  tongue  into  a  conversation 
held  in  another.  If  English,  it  was  all  English,  with 
beautiful  round  phrases,  and  the  choicest  of  words. 
If  necessary  to  use  one  of  the  many  expressions  that 


Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin.  i  2 1 

have  become  familiar  to  the  Anglo-Saxon,  lie  even 
then  translated  it  immediately,  which  gave  an  ade 
quate  idea  of  his  exactitude  in  speech,  and  the  value 
he  set  upon  his  mother  tongue. 

He  spoke  of  his  visit  to  Paris  as  a  student,  and  a 
call  on  Jules  Janin. 

"I  went  up  five  flights  of  terrible  stairs,"  he 
said,  "  and  when  you  have  seen  some  of  those  houses 
in  the  Quartier  Latin  (Latin  quarter),  you  may  imag 
ine  what  those  particular  stairs  were  like.  I  rapped 
on  a  door,  as  there  was  no  bell-rope  visible,  and  a 
smiling  maid  showed  me  into  a  very  small  ante 
chamber,  and  from  thence  into  a  modest  parlor, 
study  and  dining-room,  all  in  one. 

"  The  greatest  confusion  reigned  everywhere,  and 
the  master  of  the  house,  sitting  among  his  household 
gods,  was  the  greatest  study  of  all. 

"  He  greeted  me  with  French  effusion,  and  a  peri 
in  his  hand,  freshly  dipped  in  ink — turned  around 
with  such  vivacity  that  a  large  drop  splashed  almost 
in  my  face.  He  half  dragged  me  into  a  chair  which 
he  said  looked  uninviting,  but  was  really  very  com- 


122  Longfelloiv  Visits  Jules  Janin. 

fortable.  He  then  called  some  one,  with  a  clear 
voice.  A  very  young  lady  came  into  tho  apartment. 
She  was  introduced  as  Madame  Jairin,  and  I  had 
barely  time  to  look  at  her  when  he  started  up  and 
said,  '  Now  that  you  are  come,  we  will  have  dinner.' 

"  I  did  not  see  where  we  would  have  it,  but  he 
smiled  with  delight,  saying,  c  Watch  me,'  and  I  did. 

"  He  swept  everything  off  the  table  on  the  floor 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  with  great  glee  an 
nounced  the  banqueting  board  ready. 

"  The  maid  came  in,  quickly  laid  the  cloth,  and 
before  I  realized  it  a  steaming  soup  was  on  the  table. 
He  insisted  on  putting  me  in  front  of  him,  and 
raadame  at  his  right. 

"  The  soup  was  a  very  excellent  pot-au-feu,  and5 
although  a  little  bewildered  by  the  rapid  way  in 
which  things  had  come  about,  I  was  a  hungry  student, 
and  did  not  need  a  second  invitation. 

"  Jules  Janin  was  a  very  bright  man,  with  a  good 
di3position,  and  exceedingly  gay.  He  talked  about 
Paris  life  and  women  in  a  way  that  amazed  me,  and 
all  with  an  air  of  perfect  propriety  that  was  astound- 


Longfclloiv  Visits  Jules  Janin.  123 

ing.  The  more  surprised  I  was  to  see  the  meek 
young  woman  who  sat  at  his  side,  laugh  with  him 
and  enjoy  jokes  that  I  could  not  listen  to  without 
blushing.  He  rattled  them  off  with  such  infinite 
zest  that  I  began  to  think  something  had  been  amiss 
with  my  education,  as  I  seemed  not  to  appreciate 
them  iu  the  right  way.  He  was  debonair  and  friendly 
with  the  inadame,  often  stopping  in  the  midst  of  his 
speech  to  pat  her  cheek,  call  her  his  dear  little  cab 
bage,  or  smile  upon  her  with  an  affection  that  was 
quite  charming  to  see.  She  never  spoke,  and  seemed, 
however,  beyond  this  quite  a  nonentity. 

"  Well,  this  dinner  was  one  of  startling  surprises  to 
me.  I  thought  then  that  I  enjoyed  it,  and  I  did — the 
eating  part,  but  the  looseness  of  the  conversation 
scarcely  compared  favorably  with  what  I  had  been 
accustomed  to.  Towards  the  dessert,  he  became 
more  serious,  and  I  listened  to  his  really  brilliant 
remarks  with  great  pleasure. 

"  He  gave  me  much  very  useful  information,  and  I 
have  sinca  seen  how  true  wore  h'i3  sayings  in  one 
sense.  When  we  had  finished  our  coffee,  he  sug- 


124  Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin. 

gested  a  stroll,  and  we  went  out  into  the  streets.  I 
said  '  good-bye '  to  madame,  and  wondered  if  she 
were  going  to  be  left  alone  in  the  house,  but  Mr. 
Jules,  without  the  slightest  compunction,  tapped  her 
on  the  shoulder  in  sign  of  adieu,  and  we  started. 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  and  we  walked  a  long 
way  by  the  Seine,  and  near  the  great  Notre  Dame 
cathedral,  whose  towers  were  bathed  in  moonlight. 
The  night  was  so  charming  that  we  continued  our 
promenade  for  more  than  three  hours,  up  and 
down. 

"  Janin's  character,  while  brilliant,  was  unsafe,  or 
so  it  appeared  to  me — for  he  was  shockingly  leger  or 
trivial,  and  his  talk,  while  one  moment  witty  and 
delightful,  the  next  was  reeking  with  some  French 
story  that  completely  horrified  me.  When  I  bade 
him  good-bye  I  thought  I  would  not  willingly  see 
him  again.  In  fact,  many  years  passed,  when  I  met 
him  once  on  the  Boulevard  of  Paris. 

"  He  was  but  little  changed,  and  again  wanted  me 
to  dine  with  him.  I  was  pleased  to  meet  him,  and 
my  own  experience  in  the  meantime  had  taught  me 


Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin.  125 

that  Frenchmen  are  not  as  bad  at  heart  as  they  make 
themselves  out  to  be. 

"  Accepting  his  invitation,  I  found  him  in  another 
apartment,  more  ample  and  splendid,  perhaps,  but 
still  disorder  was  the  reigning  queen  as  before. 

"  He  introduced  me  to  Madame  Janin. 

"  I,  expecting  to  renew  my  acquaintance  of  former 
times,  found  to  -  my  astonishment  that  she  had 
changed  beyond  recognition,  and  I  tried  in  vain  to 
recall  her  to  my  memory.  I  got  through  the  form 
of  saying  good  evening,  however,  and  later  on  ex 
pressed  my  surprise  to  find  madame  so  different  from 
what  I  remembered  her. 

"  *  When  did  you  meet  her,'  said  he,  eagerly. 

« *  Why,  let  me  see,'  I  pondered,  '  I  should  think 
about  nine  or  ten  years  ago,  and  since  then  she  is 
wonderfully  altered.' 

" '  Great  Heavens,'  said  he,  seriously,  c  are  you 
jesting  ?  did  you  think  this  the  same  one  ?  Who 
knows  how  many  Madame  Janin's  there  have  been 
during  that  time  ?' 

"  I  looked  up  quietly. 


126  Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin. 

" '  And  this  one,'  said  I,  coldly. 

" (  Ah,  ha !'  he  shrieked,  with  a  shrewd  laugh. 
'This  time,  mon  cher,  I  have  been  caught  my 
self,  and  the  real  Madame  Jules  Janin  stands  before 
you ;'  but,  with  a  sober  look,  '  apropos  of  our  little 
dinner  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  nothing  to  my  wife  of 
that,  I  beg,  otherwise  your  evening  to-night  might 
be  less  tranquil.' 

"I  never  saw  him  again,"  said  Longfellow, 
"  and  I  think  that  is  one  of  the  first  and  last  French 
literary  '  menages '  that  I  frequented.  Janin 
thought  it  a  fine  joke,  but  I  see  no  beauty  or 
decency  in  such  an  irregular  life,  although  he  had 
many  a  laugh  at  what  lie  called  'my  puritanical 
innocence.' " 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  remembrances  of  this 
sort  made  a  great  impression  on  Mr.  Longfellow, 
and  while  he  always  rendered  full  justice  to  the 
talent  and  attainments  of  the  person,  the  character 
and  daily  habits  of  the  man  were  to  him  a  special 
study.  He  could  not,  with  his  severe  puritanical 
ideas,  accept  or  form  any  intimacy  with  one  whose 


Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin.  127 

life  was  made  up  of  condensed  experience  in  vice, 
and  the  careless  way  of  living  day  after  day  in  the 
same  unhealthy  moral  atmosphere  that  usually 
falls  to  the  lot  of  men  of  letters,  especially  in 
Paris. 

Jules  Janin  died  some  years  ago,  and  later  the 
"real"  madame  followed  him.  He  was  really 
"  caught,"  as  he  said,  although  his  wife  was  so  clever 
that  she  revenged  all  of  her  predecessors,  and  was 
fond  enough  of  Jules  to  write  (so  the  wicked  world 
says)  many  of  his  most  renowned  criticisms.  He 
never  left  her  alone  in  the  evening  with  a  careless 
pat  on  the  cheek,  but  almost  begged  permission  to 
go  out,  and  in  spite  of  his  former  license  he  really 
became  "  regular." 

I  told  this  to  the  poet. 

"  Yes,"  he  quickly  said,  "  all  is  right,  with  one 
exception. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  madame  ever  wrote  a  line 
of  his  works,  as  he  was  quite  clever  enough  to  do 
all,  and  more,  than  he  ever  did,  himself." 

That  speech  was  so  like  Longfellow.     Although 


128  Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin. 

he  could  not  admire  his  character,  and  the  man  was 
dead,  he  would  still  do  him  justice  in  his  heart,  and 
spoke  out  in  his  defense  with  his  rare  honesty  and 
beautiful  love  of  truth. 

Being  on  the  subject  of  writers  he  got  back  to 
poets,  and  he  spoke  of  Swinburne. 

"  I  must  admire  such  an  avalanche  of  passionate 
verse,"  said  he,  "  but  I  am  no  way  affected  by  his 
fiery  writings. 

"  The  man  is  undoubtedly  a  remarkable  character 
in  his  way,  but,  must  I  confess  it  ?  it  is  a  way  that  I 
do  not  like.  His  words  seem  to  me  to  breathe  forth 
a  pestilential  fire,  as  impetuous  as  Vesuvius  and  as 
fatal,  and  on  reading  one  has  still  ringing  in  their 
ears  the  clash  of  natures  that  rage  against  each  other, 
and  the  inharmonious  din  that  accompanies  such 
energetic  poetry. 

"  Some  of  the  descriptions  are  fine,  and  very 
vivid,  but  the  whole  leaves  my  soul  in  turmoil  and 
wearies  me  beyond  expression. 

"  How  different  is  Byron,  who,  while  the  incar 
nation  of  voluptuous  verse,  still  offends  in  a  sweeter 


Longfellow  Visits  Jules  Janin.  129 

manner  and  often  soothes  while  lie  disturbs.  I  can 
not  commend  him  entire,"  said  he,  quickly,  "  neither 
has  he  the  right  to  wholesale  condemnation ;  but, 
where  one  can  choose  many  passages  of  equal  beauty 
and  intense  emotional  quality,  it  is  easy  to  leave 
the  rest  alone,  although  the  grade  of  passion  is 
equal,  in  expressing  them  both,  while  the  thought 
and  reading  are  infinitely  less  pure,  and  different  one 
from  the  other. 

"  In  all  other  poets  of  volcanic  attributes  this  one 
great  quality  is  ambiguous  ;  in  Byron  it  is  almost  a 
charm,  and  then  too  he  was Byron. 

"  Of  Dante  and  Shakespeare,"  he  continued,  "  I 
will  not  speak.  You  know  all  men  have  their  idols, 
they  are  mine." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LONGFELLOW  WITH  HIS  GRANDCHILD. 

"  I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  in  the  dungeon 
In  the  round  tower  of  my  heart. 
And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever; 
Yes,  forever,  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin 
And  moulder  in  dust  away." 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

"  O  child!  O  new-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city,  on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed 
Like  a  celestial  benison  ! 
Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 
And  with  thy  little  hand 
Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 
Into  the  Future's  undiscovered  land." 

To  A  CHILD. 

"  '  Strike  the  sails  !'  King  Olaf  said; 

'Never  shall  men  of  mine  take  flight; 
[130] 


Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild.  131 

Never  away  from  battle  I  fled! 
Never  away  from  my  foes, 

Let  God  dispose 

Of  my  life  in  the  fight.'  " 
KING  OLAF'S  WAR  HORSE.  —TALES  WAYSIDE  INN. 

HE  family  party  was   complete,  and  after 
breakfast  the  balcony  was  full  of  bright 
faces.      Everybody  appeared  in  the  best 
of  health  and  spirits,  and  even   baby  in 
his  carriage  crowed  with  joy  and  juvenile  ecstasy. 

Mrs.  Dana,  "  Edith,"  is  his  mother.  She  retains 
the  same  beautiful  features  that  lent  such  a  charm 
to  her  babyhood,  and  the  "  little  curl  that  hung  in 
the  middle  of  her  forehead,"  has  retired  with 
womanly  dignity  to  join  her  sister  locks  on  either 
side  of  her  winsome  face.  She  has  violet-blue  eyes, 
a  skin  of  cream  and  roses,  a  dainty,  shapely  nose,  a 
most  lovable  mouth,  and  fine  masses  of  ashen  blonde 
hair,  that  undulate  away  from  the  temples  and  are 
crowned  by  a  glistening  braid. 

She  is  extremely  vivacious  and  fond  of  argu 
ment.  Mr.  T.  G.  Appleton  has  left  his  pebbles  to 
join  us,  and  his  advent  is  always  welcome. 


132  Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild. 

I  never  knew  a  man  more  thoroughly  original 
than  Mr.  Appleton,  and  whatever  he  says  is  just 
characteristic  of  himself.  His  fund  of  anecdotes  is 
inexhaustible,  and  each  day  his  clever  sayings  and 
ingenious  reflections  are  tempered  with  wholesome 
humor.  Mrs.  Dana  always  answers  "  Uncle  Tom  " 
back,  as  Mr.  Appleton  is  called,  and  many  bright 
flashes  of  esprit  are  the  result. 

The  poet  looks  on  amusedly,  lovingly,  and  with 
an  enjoyment  that  is  undeniable.  He  rarely  inter 
rupts,  but  when  referred  to  as  umpire  gives  a  gra 
cious  decision,  that  instead  of  settling  the  matter  in 
full  throws  an  entirely  new  light  on  the  subject,  and 
also  throws  both  parties  off  the  track. 

This  wary  and  dexterous  way  of  answering  a 
question  is  one  of  the  professor's  great  points,  or 
"  coups,"  as  the  French  would  say.  From  being  an 
innocent  umpire,  he  becomes,  with  one  of  his  adroit 
remarks,  a  master  in  the  art  of  drawing  others  out. 

The  professor's  face  is  a  study,  while  those  im 
promptu  word  skirmishes  are  going  on. 

Whether  the  subject  be  grave  or  gay,  he  listens 


Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild.  133 

with  the  same  seriousness,  and  his  face  glows  with 
vigilance  and  watchful  interest.  He  seems  like  a 
general  at  the  head  of  his  forces,  and  only  by  the 
color  that  faintly  comes  and  goes  in  his  cheeks,  and 
the  quick  changing  light  of  his  flashing  eye,  can  one 
discover  that  he  is  at  all  moved. 

He  reminded  me  forcibly  of  the  late  King  Victor 
Emanuel  of  Italy. 

At  a  review  of  many  thousand  troops  given  out 
side  the  famous  arena  of  Milan,  a  few  weeks  previous 
to  the  first  and  welcome  visit  of  the  German  emperor 
to  Italy,  in  1875,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  watching, 
during  an  hour,  the  great  soldier  king,  the  head  of 
the  house  of  Savoy.  How  magnificently  he  sat  his 
horse,  and  with  what  royal  grace  and  favor  did  he 
look  upon  an  army  that  is  the  honor  and  pride  of 
Italy.  It  was  during  the  mock  cavalry  charge  that 
the  king  was  to  me  perfectly  fascinating.  The 
men  rushed  forward  with  such  force  arid  vigor  that 
numbers  of  poor  fellows  were  unhorsed,  and  the  cry 
of  "  nomo  a  terra"  (men  to  earth)  rang  with  too 


134  Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild. 

great  frequency  upon  the  air  to  realize  that  it  waa 
only  a  make-believe  battle. 

His  Majesty  the  King  never  moved  a  muscle, 
but  his  glance  ran  like  lightning  along  the  lines, 
and  the  bronzed  face,  although  set  with  a  terrible 
composure,  yet  glowed  with  color  and  interest,  Not 
a  sound  escaped  his  lips,  nor  did  the  long  ends  of 
his  waxed  mustache  betray  the  slightest  nervous 
motion.  With  calm,  superb  mien  he  sat  and  gazed 
upon  a  sight  that  would  have  moved  most  men, 
his  face  only  betrayed  the  kingly  pride  and  adaman 
tine  composure  that  he  possessed  in  so  eminent,  a 
degree. 

His  flashing  eye  pierced  to  the  farthest  extent  of 
the  Piazza  d'Armi,  always  accompanied  with  the 
same  marvelous  quietness  of  feature.  The  white- 
gloved  hand  never  wavered  as  it  loosely  held  the 
rich  bridle-rein,  and  during  the  whole  of  the  charge, 
he  never  moved  from  his  graceful  position. 

The  royal  saddle-cloth,  with  its  broidered  corners 
and  fringed  edges,  was  held  down  with  such  firmness 
that  one  would  have  thought  it  a  part  of  the  trap- 


Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild.  135 

pings  and  paraphernalia  of  a  warrior  cast  in  bronze 
rather  than  a  breathing  embodiment  of  a  real,  live 
king.  One  forgot  his  person  in  looking  at  his  royal 
head,  military  tenue,  and  martial  bearing. 

He  was  every  inch  a  soldier,  and  the  great  gen 
eral  at  the  head  of  his  troops.  -They  say  that  no  one 
ever  sat  a  horse  as  did  Victor  Emanuel,  and  certainly 
I  shall  never  forget  how  I  saw  him  that  day,  the 
fierce  Italian  sun  pouring  down  on  his  gilded  helmet, 
the  large  Piazza  d'Armi  covered  with  the  brilliant 
and  magnificently-trained  army,  and  the  clouds  of 
dust  thickening  the  air  almost  as  with  the  smoke  of 
great  cannonading. 

Who  can  wonder  that  the  son  of  Carlo  Alberto 
was  adored  by  his  people ;  that  while  "  II  Re 
Galantuomo "  was  all  that  was  kingly  and  royal,  he 
was  loved  so  much  the  more  as  a  man,  because  the 
brave  soldier  came  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  subjects  ? 

Those  who  see  United  Italy  to-day  realize  the 
great  work  accomplished  by  a  man  who,  while  never 
forgetting  that  the  blue  blood  of  a  long-lined  ancestry 
coursed  through  his  veins,  fought  with  the  ardor  of  a 


136          Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild. 

common  soldier.  He  endured  toil  and  hardships, 
and  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight  mingled  freely  the 
royal  vesture  with  the  modest  uniform  of  the  peasant. 
Together  the  sabers  clashed  that  ransomed  a  people 
from  the  oppressor's  power,  and  purchased  a  unity 
that  shows  to-day  how  greater  than  any  other 
European  nation  is  the  progress  of  modern  Italy. 
Besides  being  a  most  honest  man,  the  king  was  one 
of  such  wondrous  personal  fascination  that  every  one 
of  his  people  who  came  in  contact  with  him  left  his 
presence  a  firmer  adherent,  a  passionate  adorer,  and  a 
most  loyal  subject  forevermore.  Such  was  the  man 
who  governed  with  honesty  and  simplicity,  with 
heart  and  brain,  and  who  merited  the  title  of  "  The 
Honest  King  "  (II  Re  Galantuomo). 

I  have  often  thought  of  him,  and  the  expression 
on  his  face  that  day.  Physically  there  was  not  the 
slightest  resemblance  between  the  two,  yet  Long 
fellow  had  the  same  look  of  conscious  power,  with 
complete  control  of  his  features,  and  the  skilled  and 
modest  composure  that  so  beautifully  becomes  the 
truly  great. 


Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild.  137 

I  think  the  poet  is  generally  happiest  in  the 
morning.  It  is  a  sort  of  pleasurable  omen  when  the 
night  has  passed  well,  and  to  the  affectionate  inquiries 
after  his  general  health  everybody  responds,  showing 
how  deep  his  welfare  lies  in  their  hearts. 

It  is  a  touching  thing  to  hear  the  tender  inquiries 
framed  by  his  daughters,  and  see  how  they  hang, 
with  rapt  attention,  on  every  word  he  says. 

The  morning  greeting  is  invariably,  from  him,  a 
fatherly  kiss  on  the  forehead,  then  he  slides  his  arm 
around  his  daughter's  waist,  while  the  little  questions 
that  make  up  the  sum  total  of  home  interest  are 
asked  and  answered  with  a  sweet  gravity  and  serious 
ness  that  is  perfectly  charming  to  witness.  Any 
playful  badinage  that  may  be  indulged  in  only  adds 
another  charm  to  this  sympathetic  picture,  and  one 
can  imagine  how  truly  delightful  it  is  to  see  a  united 
family  thoroughly  "  en  rapport "  with  each  other. 
Let  me  see,  how  many  were  we?  First,  there  was 
the  poet,  and  Mr.  T.  G.  Appleton,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dana,  Mr.  Craig,  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton,  Miss  Annie 
Longfellow,  Miss  Hale,  myself  and  baby.  His  car- 


138  Longfellow  with  kis  Grandchild. 

riage,  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  piazza,  was  carefully 
tended  by  nurse,  but  seeing  the  company,  he  began  a 
series  of  vigorous  outcries,  and  intimated  that  he  had 
been  neglected  far  too  long. 

The  poet  arose  and  went  quickly  up  to  him. 
Master  Richard  knew  who  was  coming,  and  com 
menced  crowing  lustily,  one  of  those  eff routed 
juvenile  invitations  to  be  taken  up  and  petted.  The 
favored  one  was  the  professor,  and  when  he  neared 
the  baby  carriage  the  dear  thing  put  up  its  soft  white 
hands,  and  almost  sprang  into  grandpapa's  arms. 

He,  nothing  loth,  took  him  up  with  all  a  mother's 
gentleness,  and  held  the  dainty  bundle  close  against 
his  breast. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  the  old  poet 
cradling  his  grandchild  in  his  arms.  The  tender 
flesh  of  the  young,  contrasting  its  softness  with  the 
mature  coloring  of  the  elder,  with  the  diminutive 
fingers  tearing  in  and  out  the  sire's  snowy  beard,  and 
the  curling  dark  locks  of  baby,  finer  than  gossamer 
or  cobwebs,  mingling  their  dainty  treasure  with  the 
bard's  silvered  hair.  This  formed  a  picture  too 


Longfellow  with  Jus  Grandchild.  139 


touching  to  be  unremarked.  Every  moment  the 
baby's  deep  eyes  would  discover  some  new  wonder 
in  grandpa's  face,  and  with  persistent  cooing  the 
little  hands  would  travel  up  and -down  the  poet's 
features,  as  only  such  mites  of  hands  could  travel, 
with  infancy's  royal  prerogative  of  license,  and  right 
of  way.  '  His  face  lit  up  with  a  beautiful  smile, 
while  the  dainty  creature  caressed  him.  Ah  !  how 
much  a  baby  can  say  without  speaking — and  Long 
fellow  understood,  in  the  finest  sense  of  the  word, 
the  smallest  wish  of  the  little  fellow.  He  would  not 
let  him  go,  and  baby  caroled  on,  happy,  so  happy, 
and  seemed  as  unwilling  to  depart  as  grandpa  was  to 
have  him.  Finally  Mrs.  Dana  came  forward  and 
remonstrated,  saying: 

"  Now,  papa,  you  have  been  a  dear  baby  tender, 
but  I  know  you  have  had  enough,  and  he  will  tire 
you  out.  Pray  let  me  take  him,  or  let  nurse  look 
after  him,  you  have  held  him  so  long,"  the  last  with 
a  piteous  little  accent. 

The  poet  looked  up  gravely,  saying : 

"  Why,  Edith,  when  you   were  little,  I  used  to 


140  Longfellow  with  Ids  Grandchild. 

hold  you  hours  and  hours,  and  it  never  seemed  too 
much.  So  it  is  with  your  baby.  I  keep  him  fast  in 
my  arms,  and  almost  fancy  it  is  you  yourself,  a  little 
thing  helpless  as  he,  and  claiming  all  of  my  attention. 
You  know  how  I  love  babies.  Now  do  let  him 
stay." 

Another  tug  at  his  beard  by  the  child,  a  frantic 
juvenile  dash,  a  crow,  and  peculiar  shout  of  laughter, 
followed  by  various  vigorous  movements,  quite  de 
cides  mamma. 

She  is  inexorable.  Baby  has  to  go,  for  she  will 
not  tire  her  papa  out,  and  he,  never  thinking  of  him 
self,  would  hold  him  till  midnight. 

Longfellow  sighed,  and  with  infinite  reluctance 
yielded  up  his  beautiful  grandson  to  the  legitimate 
tutelage,  and  settling  back  into  his  chair,  the  old  ex 
pression  of  quietness  stole  over  his  face. 

The  morning  was  already  half  finished,  and  baby's 
departure  was  the  signal  for  a  stir  among  us. 

The  poet  took  the  initiative,  and  asked  what 
everybody  thought  of  doing. 

Some  would  go  yachting,  others  had  visits,  Miss 


Longfellow  with  his  Grandchild.  141 

Annie  quite  counted  on  lier  daily  one  hour  sea-bath, 
and  wild  horses  would  not  keep  Mr.  T.  G.  Appletou 
now  from  painting  on  his  pebbles. 

At  last  some  one  asked  the  professor  his  plans  for 
the  day,  and  he  said : 

"I  think  madame,"  turning  to  me,  "  would  like 
to  see  something  of  Nahant  and  our  surrounding 
country.  I.  had  thought  of  showing  her  Lynn,  and 
if  agreeable,  we  can  take  this  afternoon  for  the  visit. 
There  is  a  fresh  breeze,  and  I,  myself,  would  enjoy 
getting  a  breath  of  it,  while  the  day  is  so  fine." 

Of  course,  anything  proposed  by  the  poet  was 
received  from  the  cnset  with  perfect  favor,  and  it 
was  decided  that  Michael  would  have  the  victoria 
ready  by  two,  sharp,  when  we  were  to  start. 

We  then  dispersed,  the  professor  to  his  apartment 
over  the  terrace,  Mr.  Appleton  to  his  pebbles,  Mr. 
Dana  to  the  city,  one  here,  another  there,  until 
luncheon  would  again  summon  such  as  were  visible 
to  the  repast  that  evidently  tried  even  Webster's 
powers  of  definition. 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE    REAL   STORY   OF   HYPERION. 


"  O,  scorn  me  as  thou  wilt,  still,  still  will  I  love  thee;  and 
tliy  name  shall  irradiate  the  gloom  of  my  life,  and  make  the 
waters  of  Oblivion  smile!  And  the  name  was  no  longer  Her- 
mione,  but  was  changed  to  Mary;  and  the  student 
Hieronymus— is  lying  at  your  feet!  O,  gentle  lady, 

'  I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  above  singing;  after  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so!     Alus!  I  found  it  love.'  " 

HYPERION,  end  chap.  VIII. 

"Tell  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless?  Why  dost 
thou  look  forward  to  the  future  with  such  strong  desire  ? 
The  present  is  thine, — and  the  past, — and  the  future  shall 
be.  O,  that  thou  didst  look  forward  to  the  great  hereafter 
with  half  the  longing  wherewith  thou  longest  for  an  earthly 
future, — which  a  few  days  at  most  will  bring  thec!  To  the 
meeting  of  the  dead  as  to  the  meeting  of  the  absent!  Thou 
glorious  Spirit-land!  O,  that  I  could  behold  thee  as  thou 
art, — the  region  of  life,  and  light  and  love,  and  the  dwelling- 
place  of  those  beloved  ones  whose  being  has  flowed  onward, 
[142] 


The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion.  143 

like  a  silver  clear  stream  into  the  solemn-sounding  main,  into 
the  Ocean  of  Eternity." 

HYPERION,  chap.  II.,  book  III. 

HE  poet   is  in  good  health  to  all  outward 
appearances,    but    he    eats    little,   almost 
nothing-,  and  at  luncheon  I  dared  remon 
strate,  as  his  breakfast  had  been  one  but  in 
name.     He  smiled  faintly  and  said  : 

"  Most  people  have  a  famous  appetite  at  the  sea 
shore,  but  I  never  had.  I  think  that  the  very  sight 
and  sound  of  it  constitute  sufficient  nourishment.  I 
love  the  ocean,  and  my  soul  is  iilled  with  something 
infinitely  more  satisfactory  than  the  bread  and  meat 
of  daily  life.  I  feel  a  sense  of  completeness  when  in 
sight  and  sound  of  it,  that  I  realize  nowhere  on  land. 
I  never  tire  of  its  strong,  healthful  breezes,  and  life- 
giving  properties.  Then,  too,  I  love  to  think  that  it 
does  me  good,  in  a  moral  sense,  and  you  know  that 
must  in  the  end  be  also  of  great  physical  benefit." 

"Dear  master,"  said  I  quickly,  "if  the  sea 
soothes  you,  it  must  be  good,  but  I  cannot  imagine 
that  morally  you  would  need  its  influence." 


144  The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion. 

The  rare,  irresistible  smile   that  I  had  so  often 
seen  came  across  his  lips,  and  he  said, 

"  I  should  hate  to  wait  until  I  positively  needed 
its  influence ;  but  we  are  all  mortal,  and  I  love  to 
take  the  good  where  I  find  it,  and  above  all,  not  to 
ilee  any  teaching  that  may  come,  whether  of  voice, 
mind  or  current.  To  me  the  sea  hath  i  a  thousand 
tongues,'  all  speaking  in  praise  of  a  higher  power, 
and  a  life  to  come  that  touches  the  realms  of  the 
-  infinite." 

His  speech  almost  saddened  me,  and  observing 
it,  he  said  quite  gayly, 

"  You  must  not  look  so  serious.  We  shall  gaze 
at  the  ocean,  on  our  way  to  Lynn,  when  it  seems 
quite  a  different  affair  from  the  puissant  monster 
that  rages  up  and  down  whole  continents,  and  I 
promise  you  not  one  i  of  the  thousand  tongues ' 
shall  accost  you  unless  you  yourself  first  give  the 
signal.  I  see  that  our  equipage  is  ready,  and  if 
you  like  we  will  start  at  once." 

The  open  victoria  stood  waiting,  and  the  horses — 
magnificent  black,  spirited  animals,  gave  a  little 


The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion.  145 

neigh  of  pleasure,  as  if  proud  of  the  honor  of  carry 
ing  the  great  poet. 

The  day  was  heavenly,  and  never  have  I  seen  the 
professor  in  better  spirits,  if  I  may  except  the 
slight  tone  of  sadness  that  occasionally  overcast  his 
fine  countenance.  He  was  in  perfect  health,  and 
determined  to  make  the  best  of  such  propitious 
weather. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  imagine  him  other  than 
a  young  man.  His  voice  was  strong  and  full,  and 
had  a  happy  ring  that  expressed  contentment  and 
success,  and  he  spoke  of  even  indifferent  things  in  a 
way  that  was  really  charming. 

As  we  neared  the  sort  of  road  bridge  that  con 
nects  Lynn  with  Nahant.  he  ordered  the  coachman 
to  drive  slowly,  so  that  he  could  "  take  in  more 
fully,"  as  he  said,  "the  beautiful  panorama  that 
stretched  out  before  us." 

And  in  truth  it  was  beautiful. 

To  the  right,  a  small  basin  gave  the  idea  of  an 
inland  lake  rather  than  the  sea,  and  an  enormous 
black  rock  in  the  center  called  "  Egg  Rock,"  dark- 


146  The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion. 

ened  the  water  for  a  mile  around.  To  the  left  of  the 
embankment  the  breakwater  formed  a  sluggish  pool 
filled  with  weeds,  and  floating  bits  of  bark  and  wood, 
and  this  muddy  pond  gradually  grew  less  dark,  as 
the  waters  went  out  to  the  sea. 

We  looked  to  the  right  as  the  prettiest  part  of 
the  picture,  and,  musing,  the  poet  spoke, 

"  Do  you  see  that  in  the  very  edge  of  this  basin  a 
thousand  little  eddies  come  and  go,  rush  upon  the 
sands,  then  recede  with  a  merry  chattering  out  into 
the  great  waters,  and  then,  back  again  \  Well !  it 
was  just  in  sight  and  sound  of  this  place  that  1 
wrote  my  poems,  i  The  Secret  of  the  Sea,'  and  '  Pal 
ingenesis.'  Each  time  I  pass,  I  realize  all  of  the 
old  fascination  for  the  spot,  I  hear  again  in  my  ears 
the  same  voices,  and  see  those  little  fiendish  waves 
dance  back  and  forth  with  their  endless  rhythm  and 
mystic  chant. 

"  Look  -  -  does  it  not  seem  a  trick,  the  cunning 
way  with  which  those  white  waves  get  back  and 
sparkle  over  the  sands,  and  their  merciless  hissing 


The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion.  147 

voices,  as  the  current  takes  them  out  again  to  the 
sea  ?  I  know  them  so  well." 

I  followed  his  eye  and  voice,  and  indeed,  I  could 
appreciate  just  the  feeling  that  he  described. 

They  seemed  like  old  friends  that  beckoned  and 
nodded  to  him,  and  at  the  same  time  kept  repeating 
their  endless  good-bye  until  the  carriage  took  us 
further  and  further  away  from  the  spot. 

As  we  neared  Lynn,  I  felt  more  in  confidence 
with  the  professor,  and  we  began  talking  of  things 
that  we  had  seen  abroad. 

The  poet  discoursed  delightfully  on  his  travels, 
and  as  we  drove  through  the  shady  avenues  of  the 
old  town,  his  voice  mingled  itself  with  the  cadence 
of  the  sea,  and  the  soft  murmur  of  the  summer  air, 
that  came  through  the  branches  of  the  lindens, 
making  a  sort  of  ^Eolian  music,  that  was  in  perfect 
harmony  with  the  scene.  I  can  see  the  grand  old 
man  now,  reposing  against  the  cushions  of  the  car 
riage,  with  his  fine,  frank  face  glowing  with  a  beau 
tiful  carnation,  the  shapely  head  thrown  back,  and 
the  snowy  hair,  silky  and  soft  as  spun  glass,  lying 


148  The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion. 

against  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  contrasting  vividly 
with  the  somber  hue  of  the  upholstery. 

Mantled  in  his  cloak,  that  gracefully  covered  his 
sloping  shoulders,  he  had  a  pose  of  consummate  ease, 
and  the  while  talked  quite  unreservedly,  now  and 
then  turning  to  me  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  ever  and 
anon  folding  or  clasping  his  hands,  that  otherwise 
lay  quite  still  and  motionless  in  his  lap. 

He  had  never  before  been  so  friendly,  and  I 
longed  to  improve  that  occasion  to  make  him  speak 
of  himself.  I  had  no  morbid  curiosity  to  know  the 
slightest  intimate  detail  of  his  life,  but  merely  wished 
to  hear  him  describe,  in  his  own  rare  way,  something 
relating  entirely  to  his  early  travels  in  Europe. 

Fate  favored  me.  Turning  a  corner  brusquely, 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  sea  and  a  bit  of  scenery  that 
caused  him  to  exclaim  : 

"  That  reminds  me  of  Switzerland.  Have  you 
ever  seen  Interlachen  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  eagerly,  "  but  tell  me  about  it.  I 
would  rather  know  what  you  think  of  it.  Were  you 
there — when,  alone — and — 5>  he  interrupted  me  sadly. 


The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion.  149 

"  No,  not  alone,  but  with  friends ;  Mr.  Appleton 
and  his  party."  Then  he  stopped. 

"  No  half  confession,"  said  I,  gayly.  "  I  am  sure 
you  are  thinking  of  something  very  important,  for 
your  face  looks  grave  and  older,  and  I  hear  a  half 
sigh  coming  from  beneath  your  cloak.  Pray  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

He  looked  up  affectionately,  and  patted  my  hand, 
saying,  at  the  time  : 

"  1  don't  know  why  I  should  speak  to  you,  you 
are  such  a  child,  and  this  was  a  long  time  ago,  but — 
do  you  not  know,"  hesitatingly,  "  Mr.  Appleton  was 
an  old  acquaintance,  and  he  introduced  me  to  the 
party  I  mentioned,  that  I  saw  at  Interlachen.  I 
suppose  something  irresistible  drew  me  there,  for 
I  had  been  traveling  in  another  direction,  and  did 
not  intend  going  that  way,  but  they  insisted,  and  I 
followed  where  Fate  or  any  enterprising  spirit  led." 

"  Yes,"  I  interrupted,  "  but  the  party  you  met, 
confess,  were  they  all  gentlemen,  no  ladies  ?" 

He  looked  up,  gravely.     "  No,"  said  he,  "  there 


150  The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion. 

were  some  ladies :  one  was  Mr.  Appleton's  sister,"  a 
pause,  drawing  in  liis  breath,  "  my  late  wife." 

His  voice  deepened  in  feeling,  and  I  lamented 
my  own  stupidity. 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  master,"  I  said,  hesitatingly. 
'•  I  did  not  know — I  could  not  have  imagined  that 
I  was  nearing  such  a  subject.  I  am  sure  you  will 
never  forgive  me." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  he,  quietly. 
"  To-day  I  am  filled  with  memories  of  the  past,  and 
I  am  glad  to  talk  with  you,  who  seem  to  appreciate 
my  feeble  efforts  to  entertain  you."  Assuring  me 
that  '•  it  did  him  good  to  speak,"  he  continued,  tell 
ing  all  about  his  travels ;  he  said :  "  I  went  to  Inter- 
lachen  very  heavy-hearted,  and  left  it  in  almost  the 
same  state  of  sadness."  Stopping  suddenly  he  said  : 
"  But  I  am  telling  you  all  this.  Have  you  never 
read  Hyperion  ?" 

I  confessed  that  I  had,  but  so  long  ago  that  I 
remembered  it  only  faintly.  He  looked  at  me  curi 
ously,  and  said,  with  some  satisfaction  and  a  half 
sigh: 


The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion.  151 

"  That  is  well,  for  the  real  ending  was  different, 
as  you  will  now  know.  After  the  death  of  my  wife 
in  Kotterdam,  I  left  Holland  and  traveled  all  over 
the  Continent.  In  Switzerland  I  met  the  Appletons, 
who  were  voyaging  for  pleasure.  Mr.  Appleton,  my 
wife's  father,  was  very  amiable.  We  were  going  to 
walk  over  the  mountains,  but  he  said  :  '  Why  should 
you  ?  There  is  one  seat  in  our  carriage,  and  that  is 
at  Mr.  Longfellow's  disposal.'  He  turned  to  me 
with  so  hospitable  a  manner  that  I  immediately 
accepted  his  invitation  and  sat  vis-a-vis  to  Miss  Fanny 
Appleton.  They  were  sc  delicate  and  kind  towards 
me  that  my  heart  warmed  instinctively,  and  in  their 
society  one  had  little  time  for  sad  hearts  and  faces. 
The  rest,"  said  he,  sweetly,  "  you  know." 

Not  content  with  what  the  poet  had  said,  I  went 
still  further  and  begged  to  ask  him  a  question. 

He  considered,  and  said,  "  that  if  it  were  not  too 
dreadful  "  he  would  answer  it  with  pleasure ;  at  the 
same  time  he  had  anything  but  an  unamiable  look. 

Kemembering  that  he  had  been  twice  married,  I 
asked  him  if  he  believed  in  affinities,  and  if  he  had 


152  The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion. 

any  warning  or  idea  when  he  met  Miss  Appleton 
that  she  would  ever  be  his  wife  ?  I  said,  "  Did  you 
love  her  at  first  sight  ?" 

He  started,  as  if  of  all  questions  that  was  the  one 
he  least  expected  to  hear,  yet  said  to  me  with  quiet 
feeling  and  simplicity : 

"  You  have  asked — I  will  answer.  Love  comes 
in  various  forms.  I  had  no  thought,  then,  that  she 
was  other  than  a  lovable  and  lovely  woman,  and  it 
was  only  some  years  afterward  that  I  knew  she  was 
all  my  world,  and  I  began  to  hope  for  that  which 
Heaven  after  granted  me.  After  our  second  meeting 
we  corresponded,  and  later  she  consented  to  take  me 
for  her  husband. 

"  No,"  he  continued,  "  Fate  is  sometimes  so  un 
kind  to  let  us  not  even  dream  of  a  happiness  that  is 
in  store.  Could  I  have  realized  then,  that  the  future 
held  one  gleam  of  brightness,  I  think  it  would  have 
altered  my  character  in  many  respects.  Still,  my 
bitter  complainings  were  all  before  my  visit  to  Jnter- 
lachen,  and  since  then " 

"Since   then,"  I   repeated,   with    hushed    voice, 


The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion.  153 

"  you  have  been  blessed  beyond  the  lot  of  ordinary 
mortals,  and  it  has  been  also  your  good  fortune  to 
help  to  make  others  happy  in  the  world,  which  is  a 
rare  joy,  and  one  for  which  Heaven  had  selected  you, 
as  her  special  and  gifted  servant."  His  face  glowed 
with  a  sublime  faith,  and  he  said  with  simple  rever 
ence  : 

"Yes.  God  is  good!" 

Back  through  the  hushed  town,  back  by  the 
stirring  trees  and  murmuring  ocean,  we  retraced  our 
way.  The  poet,  after  his  long  conversation,  taken 
up,  of  course,  at  different  intervals,  kept  very  quiet 
until  we  reached  home ;  and  seeing  him  wrapped  in 
thoughts  of  the  past,  nothing  could  have  induced  me 
to  break  the  stillness  of  his  musings. 

His  fair,  aristocratic  face  outvied  the  tranquillity  of 
nature  in  its  repose,  and  over  the  calm  features  was 
drawn  a  fine  vail  of  melancholy  that  sat  upon  his 
countenance  like  the  mist  that  partially  conceals  the 
dawn,  and  hid  this  wonderful  nature,  that  was  sacred 
in  its  communion  with  memories  of  the  past. 

Before  sleeping  I  re-read  "  Hyperion,"  and  many 

7* 


1 54  The  Real  Story  of  Hyperion. 

things  that  had  seemed  sad  and  strange  in  the  pro 
fessor,  were  explained  in  the  experience  of  Paul 
Flemming.  The  book  is  really  a  history  of  his  own 
life,  and  his  ideal  woman,  that  in  the  last  chapter  he 
bids  adieu  to  forever  as  Fanny  Asburton,  became  in 
after  years  Mrs.  Longfellow,  nee  Fanny  Appleton. 


CHAPTER   XI. 
LONGFELLOW'S  LOVE  OF  FLOWERS. 

"  In  all  places  then,  and  in  all  seasons 
Flowers  expand,  flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul- 
like  wings, 

Teaching  us  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things." 

FLOWERS. 

"  'My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flow'rets  gay,' 

The  reaper  said,  and  smiled ; 
'  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 
Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  *  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light 
Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear.'  " 

THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

ONGFELLOW  is  very  fond  of  flowers. 
Besides  the  garden's  generous  contribu 
tion,  there  are  quantities  sent  to  the  poet 
by  admiring  friends,  and  the  house  is 

never  without  them.     He  loves  them  all,  from  the 

[155] 


1 56  Longfellow  s  Love  of  Flozvers. 

tiny  flow'ret  that  blooms  modestly  by  the  wayside,  to 
the  gorgeous  blossom  that  commands  the  attention 
usually  paid  the  pretentious.  Mr.  Longfellow  pre 
fers  violets,  roses  and  lilies,  although  he  rarely  passes 
a  flower-bed,  or  a  dainty  thing  growing  among  the 
grasses,  but  he  stops  affectionately  and  plucks  some 
leaf  or  bud. 

I  remember  last  Spring,  at  Cambridge,  a  stroll 
we  took  up  and  down  the  old  walk.  The  trees,  dis 
mantled  of  their  snowy  winter  burden,  were  already 
many-leaved,  and  the  lawn  had  a  velvety  appearance. 
The  whole  front  of  the  garden  facing  Brattle  street 
has  a  thick  hedge,  or  wall  of  bushes.  These  were 
all  in  bud,  and  on  the  oldest  branch  there  was  one 
spray  of  white  lilac  in  full  blossom.  The  poet 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  as  he  saw  it,  and 
with  native  gallantry  plucked  it  and  gave  it  me. 

"  You  must  keep  it,"  said  he  naively,  "'tis  the 
first  one  this  season.  I  love  Spring  flowers,  and  I 
particularly  love  the  old-fashioned  lilacs,  yet  they 
make  me  sad." 

His   was  an   impressionable   nature,    and   when 


Long  fellows   Love  of  Flowers.  157 

with  his  friends,  he  gave  unrestrained  utterance  to 
his  thoughts.  He  was  unusually  quiet  that  morning, 
and  I  said, 

"  Cher  maitre,  why  do  these  early  flowers  sad 

den  you?" 

He  looked  at  me  earnestly,  and  said, 
"Whenever  I  take  up  one  I  ask  myself,  'Will  I 
live  to  see  another  Spring-time?'  I  have  a  strange 
idea,  that  if  they  welcome  me  with  their  first  smile 
I  shall  not  die  that  year,  hut  live  just  in  sight  of 
another  May.  Promise  me,"  this  eagerly,  "that 
when  I  am  gone  you  will  place  a  branch  of  these 
lilacs  on  my  grave.  Flowers  are  my  oldest  friends." 
I  was  too  touched  not  to  promise  as  he  wished,  but 
I  scolded  him  playfully  for  his  sad  thoughts,  and 
refused  to  encourage  such  melancholy.  To-day  he 
had  the  old  look  when  he  saw  the  fresh  flowers  in 
the  room,  and  at  the  first  sign  of  sadness,  I  said 


"Dear  master,  pas  de  tristesse,  these  are  not 
lilacs."  Before  he  could  answer  Mr.  Nathan  came 
in  with  a  mysteriously-covered  parcel.  A  faint 


158  Longfellow  s   Love  of  Flowers. 

something  gleaming  from  under  the  fine  tissue 
paper,  suggested  a  bouquet  or  cut  blossoms.  Imag 
ine  what  they  were  ?  Pink  pond  lilies,  not  the 
white  or  "  yellow  water  lily,"  spoken  of  in  Hiawatha, 
but  the  veritable  flower  in  pink.  I  think  I  never 
saw  anything  so  beautiful,  and  my  astonishment  was 
as  great  as  my  admiration.  Professor  Longfellow 
was  more  enthusiastic  over  them  than  any  one,  and 
he  expressed  himself  in  the  warmest  terms.  Mr. 
Nathan  explained  that  they  had  been  brought  orig 
inally  from  South  Africa  by  a  sea-captain,  and  trans 
planted  near  Sandwich,  Cape  Cod.  They  grew  up 
almost  white,  but  of  late,  with  care,  they  have 
deepened  into  a  lovely  rose-pink.  Strange  to  say, 
they  are  side  by  side  with  the  white  lilies,  and  never 
have  propagated  with  them.  They  remain  beauti 
fully  and  distinctly  pink,  and  each  year  become  more 
lovely. 

"  They  are  not  luxuriant,"  said  Mr.  Appleton, "  and 
are  found  only  in  this  one  pond  near  Boston.  It  is  a 
pity  they  are  so  scarce,  as  they  would  speedily  be 
come  the  '  grand  mode}  " 


Longfellow's   Love  of  Flowers.  159 

"They  are  exquisite  enough,"  responded  Mr. 
Longfellow,  "  to  become  the  fashion — they  are  in 
spiring,  and  these  are  particularly  lovely."  Mr. 
Nathan  interrupted : 

"  They  inspired  Miss  Jewett.  She  wrote  a  beau 
tiful  poem  about  them.  Perhaps,"  turning  to  me, 
"  you  will  also  express  your  feelings  in  verse." 

"  But  I  never  write  poetry" — I  objected. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Nathan,  "  I  dare  you  to 
this  time.  Every  lady  that  sees  these  flowers  protests 
an  immediate  inspiration,  and  you  surely  must  try 
your  hand." 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  quite  interested  and  looked 
anxiously  on,  but  I  expostulated. 

"  I  assure  you  I " 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Nathan,  "I  dare  you.  You 
must  do  it." 

"  I  cannot  ignore  a  dare,"  said  I  hastily,  "  but 
poetry — it  seems  dreadful  to  dash  off  anything  in  that 
fashion." 

Mr.    Longfellow    interposed.     "  Try,"   said   he ; 


160  Longfellow's  Love  of  Flowers. 

adding,  amusedly,  "  you  know  a  great  deal  of  poetry 
is  made  to  order  ;  why  should  you  not  succeed  ?" 

"  Yery  well,"  said  I,  "  but  give  me  a  flower ;  I  can 
not  write  without  that."  Mr.  Nathan  gravely  handed 
me  the  lily — the  poet  smiled  good-humoredly,  and 
said,  "  courage,"  while  I  withdrew  to  the  little  library. 
Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  I  came  out  with  a 
faded  blossom  but  a  flushed  face.  In  my  hand  was 
the  following : 

A  PINK  POND  LILY. 

1. 

From  far  Ngami's  golden  shore 
A  gallant  captain,  passing  o'er 

The  river  long  and  wide, 
In  a  lonesome  pool  beyond  the  bank, 
Mid  waters  dark  and  sea- weed  dank 

A  blushing  flower  espied. 

2. 

Then  far  from  Afric's  fevered  smile 
The  lily  fair  did  he  beguile, 

And  root  and  branch  uptore. 
He  bore  it  in  his  ship  of  state 
To  newer  land,  to  newer  fate, 

Upon  Cape  Cod's  lone  shore. 


Longfellow's  Love  of  Flowers.  161 


3. 

The  flower  drooped  in  its  stranger  bed, 
Fretted,  and  drooped,  and  hung  its  head, 

To  weep  by  day  and  night: 
And  when  it  reached  Columbia  fair, 
To  find  itself  transplanted  there, 

Its  color  fled — 'twas  white. 


4. 

O  pallid  flower,  with  petals  cold, 
O  lovely  form,  with  heart  of  gold, 

Mine,  mine  thou  art  in  truth ; 
With  wealth  of  sadness  in  thy  face, 
Each  leaf  of  white  symbolic  grace, 

Fair  emblem  of  our  youth. 

5. 

As  by  the  quiet  meadow-side 

A  mirrored  lake  thy  form  doth  hide 

A  world  of  love  unsought, 
So  with  thy  comrades  to  and  fro, 
The  night-winds  proud  to  tlice  shall  blow 

The  charm  with  which  they're  fraught. 

6. 

At  last,  with  earthly  care  oppressed 
The  shades  of  evening  bid  thee  rest, 

A  pale,  unworldly  elf. 
The  soft  caress,  love's  wayward  charm, 
Can  ne'er  to  thee  bring  blight  or  harm, 

Thou'rt  love  and  life  thyself. 


1 62  Longfellow's*  Love  of  Flowers. 


7. 

And  when  the  waters  grieving  loud, 
With  shadows  dark  and  mist  o'ercrowd 

Thy  tender  drooping  crest, 
So  night's  great  privilege  will  show 
To  thee  as  to  all  flowers  below 

Oblivion,  peace,  and  rest. 

8. 

But  shall  thy  head  in  death  be  bowed 
Whose  wealth  of  beauty,  pure  and  proud, 

A  crown  of  life  desires. 
Thou  licst  to-night  in  pallid  bier, 
Nor  think'st  to  find  enflamgd  here 

Proud  resurrection's  fires. 


9. 

A  broken  heart  doth  sadly  sleep, 
The  secret  all  the  lilies  keep, 

The  secret  of  thy  flight; 
And  then  with  bated  breath  they  fold 
Thy  petals  white,  thy  heart  of  gold 

Wrapp'd  in  the  cloak  of  night. 

10. 

Yet  hark.     Alectryon's  trump  doth  call, 
Aurora's  lights  rose-tinted  fall 

On  morning's  dawn,  then  sink. 
The  stranger  lily,  once  so  white 
Comes  blushing  from  her  buried  night 

Comes  forth  with  petals  pink. 


Longfellow  s  Love  of  Flowers.  163 

11. 

And  so  the  legend  now  is  told, 
About  a  flower  with  heart  of  gold 

That  did  her  name  forswear; 
And  said  "adieu  "  to  robes  of  snow, 
With  borrowed  light  to  bloom  and  glow, 

A  piak  pond  lily  rare. 

Nahant,  July,  1880. 

I  gave  up  the  poem.  Mr.  Longfellow  with  aston 
ishment  took  it  from  me,  and  scanning  it  over,  said 
quickly : 

"  The  fourth  and  fifth  verses  are  as  good  poetry  as 
most  can  write,  but  the  rest — I" — hesitating — "  you 
must  not  feel  badly,  but  I  should  scarcely  call  this  a 
poem.  It  is  a  poetic  sketch,  and  something  might  be 

% 

made  of  it.  Let  me  have  it  and  I  will  correct  it,  and 
show  you  where  and  why  the  changes  are  made." 

Mr,  Nathan  looked  up  quickly  and  said,  "  Two 
ladies  have  written  on  the  same  flower  with  totally 
different  ideas.  Who  would  have  believed  it  ?  Now 
the  next  person  I  dare  "• 

"  Nathan,"  hastily  interrupted  the  poet,  "  I  don't 
think  you  had  better  <  dare '  any  one  else  to  write 
poetry,  although  " — checking  himself  adroitly,  "  had 


164  Longfellow 's  Love  of  Flowers. 

you  not  done  so,  we  would  have  missed  madame's 
lines." 

"  Oh !  I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say,"  I 
spoke  up  quickly.  "  But  forgive  me,  I  promise  never 
to  do  so  any  more." 

The  poet  looked  happy  again. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  he  honestly,  "  I  think  there 
are  other  things  that  you  can  do  better  than  to  write 
poetry,  although  I  shall  correct  this  if  you  wish,  and 
if  you  still  insist  on  making  verses,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
help  you  any  way  in  my  power." 

Those  were  my  first  and  last  lines  made  to  order, 
but  I  let  Mr.  Longfellow  correct  my  sketch  to  keep 
as  a  souvenir  of  a  pink  pond  lily. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LONGFELLOW   IN   CONVERSATION. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night, 
Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  unextinguishable  light." 

THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

"  Nothing  useless  is,  or  low; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest." 

RESIGNATION. 

AJLLS  begin  before  luncheon,  and  the  pro 
fessor  is  always  the  recipient  of  several 
each  day.     Here  the  visitors  are  usually 
old  friends,  or  recent  agreeable  acquaint 
ances,  instead  of  the  crowd  of  curious,  and  autograph 

seekers  that  hunt  out  the  Craigie  mansion,  and  be- 

[165] 


1 66  Longfellow   in  Conversation. 

tray   themselves   to    the    passers-by,    in    the   shady 
avenues  of  Cambridge. 

Strange  to  say,  the  conversation  rarely  turns  on 
the  subject  of  poetry. 

Longfellow  rarely  argues.  When  he  speaks,  a 
fine  sensibility  marks  his  demeanor,  and  a  certain 
self-respect  that  immediately  gives  dignity  to  the 
topic  under  discussion,  and  commands  the  instant 
attention  of  all  present.  The  graces  of  his  mind  are 
such  that  every  sentiment  receives  just  appreciation, 
and  before  the  thought  finds  expression  his  lips  have 
already  framed  an  admirable  and  appropriate  speech. 

His  language  is  strong,  penetrating  and  beautiful, 
rarely  flowery,  and  devoid  of  useless  words  and  re 
dundant  adjectives.  Senseless  phrases  are  never 
interlarded. 

He  says  the  wittiest  things  without  intention,  and 
never  stops  to  make  a  point  in  the  midst  of  his 
speech.  In  things  that  need  real  condemnation  his 
words  are  steel-pointed,  arid  no  barbed  arrow  ever 
went  nearer  the  mark.  He  speaks  with  conviction, 
earnestness,  and  a  certain  eloquence  as  original  as 


Longfellow   in  Conversation.  167 

fascinating.  Whatever  the  subject,  he  attacks  it 
boldly,  honestly. 

He  employs  no  petty  subterfuges  of  language  to 
hide  a  real  meaning.  There  are  no  fine  speeches 
that  cover  a  bad  thought,  or  address  themselves  to 
what  the  world  calls  clever  people.  In  politics,  re 
ligion,  civil  reform  or  the  fine  arts,  he  is  equally  at 
home  in  understanding  and  discussion.  How  in  the 
world  Longfellow  finds  time  to  make  himself  master 
of  all  subjects,  is  simply  puzzling.  He  needs  only  to 
read  to  remember,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  twenty- 
four  hours'  study  a  day  for  a  life-time  would  never 
have  sufficed  to  acquaint  him  with  all  he  knows,  with 
out  this  special  intuitive  gift  of  understanding. 

He  does  not  need  to  turn  a  subject  over  in  his 
mind  many  times,  before  a  just  conclusion  is 
arrived  at. 

This  superhuman  mental  quality  is  rare  to-day, 
and  enjoyed,  I  think,  in  the  highest  sense  by  our 
great  poet.  It  is  not  a  question  of  being  able  to 
talk  understandingly  on  general  subjects,  nor  to  crit 
icise  indiscriminately  on  every  occasion,  but  to  fabri- 


1 68  Longfelloiv   in  Conversation. 

cate,  from  proper  material,  the  structure  that  will 
best  hold  your  ideas  and  thoughts.  It  is  easy  to  tear 
down,  but  difficult  to  build.  Longfellow,  like 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  is  an  architect  of  the  soul,  and 
the  solid  foundation  laid  by  nature  has  received 
additional  pillars  of  thought  and  education,  and 
plans  of  self-sustaining  power,  that  show  forth,  in 
their  completeness,  the  overwhelming  beauty  of 
truth,  and  truthful  culture  in  man. 

I  doubt  not  that  he  could  improvise,  and  the 
most  noted  of  his  lyrics  show  that  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  muse  his  heart  has  poured  itself  out 
in  suddenly-inspired  song,  yet  his  speech  has  little  of 
improvisation.  It  is  more  like  the  rounded  utterance 
of  one  who  has  studied  a  subject  deeply,  and  turned 
it  over  and  over  again  in  his  mind. 

My  attention  was  called  to  this  fact  from  observa 
tions  made  by  his  own  family. 

At  the  conclusion  of  some  of  his  remarks  I  have 
frequently  heard  one  of  his  daughters  say  : 

"  Why,  papa,  how  funny.  I  never  heard  you 
express  yourself  on  that  subject  before,  and  certainly 


Longfellow   in  Conversation.  169 

not  with  such  precision,  and  positive  conviction ; 
you  have  been  studying  it  up  to  surprise  us." 

Then  the  poet  would  start  hastily,  and  with  utter 
gravity  and  modesty  disclaim  all  special  study  of  the 
question,  remarking,  simply : 

"  Have  I  not  spoken  of  it  before  ?  "Well,  that  is 
not  strange — although  of  course  I  have  thought 
about  it  often  ;  still,  not  being  an  ordinary  topic,  it 
has  been  but  little  in  my  way." 

On  many  questions  the  poet  retains  an  obstinate 
silence.  In  vain  does  one  try  to  draw  him  out.  He 
listens  with  exquisite  attention,  but  is  cold,  impas 
sive  and  unyielding.  No  artifice  of  the  calculating 
speaker  can  win  from  him  the  slightest  sign  of  either 
approbation  or  disapproval.  His  manner  is  so  posi 
tive  that  one  must  needs  be  hardy  indeed  to  ask  his 
opinion  when  he  does  not  venture  a  word. 

It  is  a  great  art  to  listen  well — greater  than  that 
of  speaking  well.  To  those  who  have  frequented 
men  of  letters  and  geniuses,  it  is  refreshing  to  find  a 

person  who  has  no  predilections  in  conversation,  no 
8 


170  Longfellow  in  Conversation. 

hobbies  to  discuss,  and  who  does  not  harp  continually 
on  one  subject. 

I  am  not  saying  that  Longfellow  may  not  have 
one  thought  that  is  paramount  to  all  others,  and  one 
ambition  that  the  world  knows  has  been  gratified  to 
its  full.  Poetry  ever  will  be  the  god  of  his  idolatry. 
A  person  not  knowing  him  would  at  once  allow  him 
to  be  a  man  of  culture,  although  they  would  be  at  a 
loss  from  his -speech  to  know  in  what  particular  line 
his  talents  lay. 

Whenever  the  conversation  turns  upon  himself,  as 
very  often  happens,  he  deftly  draws  attention  to 
something  else,  but  in  a  delicate  way.  Before  one  is 
aware,  the  subject  gradually  becomes  less  personal, 
and  Longfellow  directly  appears  pleased. 

He  takes  real  and  unaffected  interest  in  the  pur 
suits  of  those  who  visit  him,  and  when  young  people 
speak  of  what  they  are  attempting  to  do  in  life,  he 
questions  them  kindly  and  judiciously,  never  failing 
to  encourage  the  fighter  of  life's  battles  to  keep  on 
in  the  good  way. 

One  does  not  often  hear  from  his  lips  sweeping 


Longfellow   in  Conversation.  171 

denunciations  of  religions,  sects,  societies,  or  any  pro 
fession.  If  there  be  good  in  them,  he  is  the  first  to 
speak  of  it,  and  if  there  be  glaring  faults,  he  tries  to 
find  an  excuse,  and  expresses  a  hope  for  their  future 
improvement  and  well-being. 

A  man  possessed  of  Longfellow's  keen  insight 
into  human  nature  cannot  ignore  the  fact  that  while 
much  is  beautiful,  much,  alas !  is  morally  very  ugly  in 
the  world.  The  outward  sign  may  be  all  that  is 
tempting,  like  those  lovely  flowers  that  grow  in  far- 
off  lands,  where  creeping  waters  hide  their  roots,  and 
a  deadly  poison  is  exhaled  from  their  petals,  instead 
of  the  rare  perfume  that  one  expects  from  an  en 
chanting  exterior. 

Because  it  exists  and  is  bad,  he  would  not  uproot 
every  vestige  of  the  plant,  but  rather,  like  Father 
Lawrence,  would  seek  to  find  the  good,  although  to 
man  still  unrevealed. 

The  snows  of  many  winters  have  silvered  his  hair, 
and  he  has  had  a  great  experience  in  life,  yet  withal, 
in  face  of  his  enormous  instruction  and  still  greater 


172  Longfelloiv   in  Conversation. 

appreciation  of  the  world,  Longfellow  is  an  optimist 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  love  of  truth,  and  enjoyment  of 
truthful  things,  that  has  in  so  great  a  measure  shaped 
his  life,  and  rendered  him  the  most  simple  and  unaf 
fected  of  men ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  is  more 
sensitive  than  another,  and  peculiarly  alive  to  the 
coming  in  contact  of  an  inharmonious  nature. 

I  have  felt  when  he  was  so  tried.  Without  saying 
anything,  one  could  see  at  once  that  some  antag 
onistic  element  had  forced  its  presence  upon  him, 
and  he  received  at  the  same  moment  an  instantaneous 
shock.  He  shivers  mentally,  and  reminds  one  of  a 
sensitive  plant  that,  taken  from  its  natural  surround 
ings,  is  transplanted  to  the  wayside,  and  feels  for  the 
first  time  the  chill,  piercing  blast,  and  cold  discomfort 
of  an  uncongenial  clime.  I  sometimes  think  so  im 
pressionable  a  nature  a  doubtful  gift. 

Longfellow  would  have  graced  any  century  with 
his  virtues, and  even  the  "L'aureo  trecento"  (Golden 
Age)  with  his  talent. 

Of  the  three  great  poets  who  are  claimed  by  the 


Longfellow   in  Conversation.  173 

Century  of  Gold,  Petrarch  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
strictly  virtuous,  Dante  the  most  impetuous,  and 
Boccaccio  the  most  careless  of  the  trio.  Longfellow 
resembles  them  only  in  his  rare  gift  of  natural  song, 
and  will  hand  down  to  history's  page  the  record  of  a 
pure  and  stainless  life. 

Dante  was  reckless  and  lived  a  life  of  turmoil. 
The  only  pure  affection  he  ever  knew  was  the  love  of 
Beatrice,  and  that  came  to  him  when  he  had  learned 
the  value  of  a  woman's  smile.  Boccaccio  was  vain, 
careless,  but  supremely  gifted.  Longfellow,  on  the 
contrary,  has  no  ^ces,  and  lives  out  his  exemplary 
life  in  the  fear  of  God,  beloved  by  man,  and  with 
exceeding  tranquillity  of  mien.  The  world  is  better 
that  he  has  lived  in  it. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE  ORIGIN   OF  FISH  CHOWDER. 

"  To  whom  the  student  answered:  Yes; 
All  praise  and  honor !  I  confess 
That  bread  and  ale,  home-baked,  home-brewed, 
Are  wholesome  and  nutritious  food." 

"  Forthwith  there  was  prepared  a  grand  repast." 

"  Then  her  two  barn -yard  fowls,  her  best  and  last, 
"Were  put  to  death  at  her  express  desire, 
And  served  up  with  a  salad  in  a  bowl, 
And  flasks  of  country  wine  to  crown  the  whole." 

THE  MONK  OP  CASTLE  MAGGIOBE. — 
TALES  OP  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 

OMEHOW  to-day  I  feel  quite  strange,  and 
alone.    "  Allons,"  I  am  already  late.     The 
sun  has  already  covered  everything  out 
side  with  a  golden  glow,  and  to  be  in  the 
house  at  such  a  time  is  criminal.     Donning  a  dress 
of    soft    white    cashmere,   trimmed   with  lace   and 

f  ringe,  I  prepare  to  descend,  and  stop  once  again  to 

[174] 


The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder.  175 

look  in  the  glass.  Beflectively,  I  say  to  myself, 
"  White  is  becoming  to  blondes,"  and  feeling  already 
a  little  better  in  my  mind,  I  join  the  family,  who  are 
loitering,  as  usual,  on  the  back  terrace. 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Dana,  quickly,  "  you  look  like 
a  bride.  What  is  it  ?" 

"  This  is  the  anniversary  of  my  wedding,"  said 
I,  "and  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  alone  on 
such  a  memorable  occasion.  But  my  husband  must 
be  '  en  route  '  for  America ;  he  expected  to  sail 
about  this  date,  and  news  must  soon  come." 

While  I  was  yet  talking,  a  servant  brought  me  a 
dispatch.  Thanks  to  Cyrus  Field's  Atlantic  cable, 
one  can  talk  across  continents,  and  I  read  "  Sail  to 
day  in  <  Gallia,'  all  well,  love."  This  had  been  sent 
from  Liverpool,  and  already  my  husband  was  on  his 
way.  The  professor  smiled  pleasantly,  and  all 
wished  him  the  safest  of  voyages. 

We  talked  on  of  different  things  and  brought  up 
the  subject  of  the  Boston  Cadets,  and  a  recent  pleas 
ant  visit  to  the  camp.  The  commanding  officer, 
Colonel  Hayes,  was  very  polite,  and  we  had  an  op- 


176  The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder. 

portunity  of  seeing  the  "boys"  near  by  as  they 
came  up  from  their  splendid  drill,  and  passed  in  front 
of  the  colonel's  tent. 

The  time  passed  away  so  quickly  that  it  was  late 
before  we  had  even  thought  of  leaving,  and  then, 
accompanied  by  the  charming  Miss  Sarah  Jewett 
and  Miss  Hayes,  the  colonel's  sister,  we  finally  left 
the  pleasant  green  to  go  to  Nahant  proper,  or  rather 
to  the  poet's  house,  as  we  were  all  to  dine  with  him. 

When  we  returned,  he  was  loud  in  his  praise  of 
the  cadets,  and  regretted  that  a  slight  cold  had  kept 
him  in  doors.  You  see,  it  was  rather  risky  going  so 
far,  and  being  obliged  to  keep  one's  feet  all  of  the 
time  upon  the  wet  ground,  so  soon  after  recent  rain  ; 
and  the  professor  was  very  wise  not  to  think  of  it. 
We  sat  down  to-day,  a  jolly  party,  and  I  must  say 
here,  that  one  does  not  often  get  such  dinners  out 
side  Paris.  Every  day  we  had  fish  chowder  by  re 
quest,  but  this  evening  there  was  a  change. 

When  the  table  was  all  ready  and  the  guests  were 
seated,  Mr.  T.  G.  Appleton  raised  his  head  and  ex 
plained, 


The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder.  177 

"  To  night  our  chowder  is  different ;  instead  of 
fish " 

"  It  is  clam,"  interrupted  the  professor,  with  a 
grim  little  smile. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?"  said  his  brother-in-law 
quickly. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  Longfellow ;  "  I  only  saw 
that  you  looked  as  if  you  were  about  to  announce  a 
matter  of  great  moment,  and  by  your  partially  desig 
nating  the  dish,  I  thought  it  referred  to  a  change  in 
our  favorite  soup.  Although  not  radical,  it  is  a 
change.  Chowder  is  always  chowder,  but  fish 
chowder  is  never  clam." 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  I  broke  in,  "  what  it  all 
means ;  what  is  chowder,  how  is  it  made,  and  what 
language  docs  it  speak  ?  who  will  tell  me  about  it  ?" 

Mr.  T.  G.  Appleton  looked  up,  and  during  the 
pauses  of  helping  his  hungry  guests,  he  said : 

"  I  will  explain,  and  gladly."  Even  the  professor 
looked  interested,  and  Mr.  Appleton  began. 

Stop,  before  he  speaks  I  must  describe  him. 
He  has  a  portly  form,  tall,  and  well  furnished.  His 


178  The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder. 

eyes  are  steady,  dark,  and  they  burn  with  a  look  at 
times  that  must  be  agony  to  the  conscious  man^  for 
he  certainly  will  get  everything  out  of  him,  no  mat 
ter  how  much  he  might  want  to  conceal.  His  face 
is  strongly  marked,  with  heavy  brows,  thick  mus 
tache,  and  an  expression  of  such  rare  intelligence 
that  an  Italian  after  saying  "astuzia"  would  give 
it  up,  for  "  astuzia  "  means  shrewdness,  and  our  ami 
able  host,  besides  possessing  that  quality,  adds  to  it  a 
world  of  natural  wit  and  talent,  aided  by  the  most 
advantageous  study  of  human  nature  that  wide 
travel  and  a  liberal  education  could  possibly  afford. 
Besides  being  a  charming  man  in  every  way,  he  is 
kindliness  itself,  and  the  best  story-teller  one  ever 
listened  to.  Whatever  he  talks  about  his  way  of 
putting  it  is  refreshing,  delightful,  and  altogether 
palatable. 

The  professor  looked  brightly  wide  awake,  and  in 
answer  to  my  asking  "What  is  chowder?"  Mr.  Ap- 
plctori  began. 

"  Chowder," — he  glances  around — everybody  is 
listening. 


The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder. 


"  Chowder,"  lie  repeats,  daintily  ladling  out  the 
savory  soup,  "  is  only  good  when  made  in  private 
houses.  At  hotels  it  is  watery  and  insipid,  while 
the  fish  and  chowder  crackers  are  usually  boiled  to 
rags.  The  way  to  make  it  is  this.  The  fish  (cod  or 
haddock)  should  be  broken  into  large  flakes,  and 
boiled  twenty  minutes  with  plenty  of  salt  pork  and 
milk  and  chowder  biscuits.  The  dish  was  probably 
obtained  by  New  England  fishermen  from  the  French, 
who  for  two  centuries  have  been  catching  and  salting 
the  cod,  which  is  also  immensely  used  in  countries 
bordering  on  the  Mediterranean.  When  salted  it  is 
called  'baccalao?  The  New  England  fishermen 
told  their  wives  of  this  good  and  simple  dish,  and 
tanght  them  how  to  make  it.  The  women  asked 
what  it  was  called,  and  in  reply  were  told  that  they 
had  heard  a  good  deal  of  a  word  like  'chowder.' 
The  real  word  they  had  heard  was  chaudiere,  not 
the  thing  itself,  but  the  kettle  in  which  it  was 
cooked." 

Mr.  Appleton  looked  around. 

This  was    the    real    reason,   undoubtedly,   why 


i8o  The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder. 

chowder  was  called  chowder,  and  I  was  very  glad  to 
know  the  origin  of  the  dish. 

In  the  midst  of  the  talking  and  pleasant  click  of 
the  champagne  glasses  the  professor  arose,  and  lift 
ing  his,  said  with  grave  ceremony,  and  tender  grace, 

"  '  Les  absents  ont  toujours  tort '  (the  absent  are 
always  in  the  wrong),  according  to  the  French  prov 
erb,  but  to-day  I  beg  an  exception  to  the  general 
rule  in  favor  of  my  young  friend,  Signor  Macchetta. 
This  is  the  anniversary  of  his  wedding  day,  and 
although  he  may  not  hear,  I  propose  his  life-long 
heal tli  and  happiness,  and  that  of  my  young  guest, 
Madame,  his  wife.  May  he  have  a  prosperous  voy 
age,  and  may  the  good  ship  <  Gallia '  bring  back  to 
our  hospitable  shores  the  loving  husband  and  ever- 
welcome  friend." 

Then  there  were  shouts  and  happy  speeches,  con 
gratulations  without  number,  and  of  course,  I  was 
quite  a  heroine.  One  could  not  help  feeling  touched 
at  the  dear  old  poet's  attention,  and  I  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  the  table  was  more  than  usually  hand 
some.  Lovely  flowers  here  and  there  covered  the 


The  Origin  of  Fish   Chowder,  181 

fine  damask  cloth,  and  some  way  the  dinner  partook 
more  of  a  fete  than  an  every-day  affair.  It  had  been 
so  delicately  managed,  that  I,  least  of  all,  was  suspi 
cious  of  what  was  going  to  happen  when  Professor 
Longfellow  got  up,  but  now  that  it  was  done,  and 
done  with  such  grace,  who  would  not  have  felt  hon 
ored  and  proud  to  have  such  a  thoughtful  friend  ? 
All  joined  with  equal  good-will  and  sympathy  in  try 
ing  to  make  my  anniversary  a  happy  one. 

The  night  was  so  still  that  during  the  dinner  we 
heard  the  first  sound  of  the  bells  of  Lynn  borne 
across  the  waters,  and  I  called  to  mind  the  poet's  beau 
tiful  lines : 

"  Oh,  curfew  of  the  setting  sun  !  O  Bells  of  Lynn  1 
Oh,  requiem  of  the  dying  day!  O  Bells  of  Lynnl 

From  the  dark  belfries  of  yon  cloud,  cathedral  wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  O  Bells  of  Lynnl 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson  twilight, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the  headland, 
Listens  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells  of  Lynn. 

Over  the  shining  sands  the  wandering  cattle  homeward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of  Lynnl 


1 82  The  Origin  of  Fish  Chowder. 

The  distant  light-house  hears,  and  with  his  flaming  signal, 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous  surges, 
And  clap  their  hands  and  shout  to  you,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  ! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  witli  your  wild  incantations, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  O  Bells  of  Lynn ! 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of  Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn  1" 


CHAPTER   XIY. 
LONGFELLOW'S  LOVE  OF  MUSIC. 

4 'And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  silently  steal  away." 

THE  DAY  is  DONE. 

E  passed  the  evening  delightfully,  and  some 
near  neighbors  and  friends  coming  in,  the 
current  of  conversation  was  led  into  various 
channels.  The  poet  is  passionately  fond 
of  music,  and  Mr.  Haines,  a  cultivated  amateur, 
played  and  sang  some  charming  selections.  I  also 
had  the  honor  of  singing,  at  the  poet's  request,  the 
famous  prayer  from  Rossini's  Otello,  sung  by  Desde- 
mona  in  the  finale  of  the  great  scene,  "  Assisa  a  pie 

dlwi  salice" 

[183] 


184  Longfellow  s  Love  of  Music. 

The  prayer  has  no  variations,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  changes  at  the  end,  written  by  Malibran, 
and  so  admired  by  Rossini  himself  that  they  have 
become  traditional. 

Longfellow  listened  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Pray  sing  it  again,"  said  he,  eagerly,  when  I 
had  finished  ;  "  those  few  notes  to  me  contain  more 
real  heart-felt  music  than  anything  that  Rossini  ever 
wrote.  How  well  I  can  picture  to  myself  the 
anguished  Desdemona  under  the  influence  of  some 
terrible  impending  calamity,  praying  Heaven  with  all 
her  heart  to  give  her  peace  and  rest.  How  touching 
the  words."  Then  slowly  to  himself  he  repeated,  in 
a  voice  deep  with  suppressed  feeling  : 

"Deh!  Cttlma  o  ciel,  nel  seno 
Per  poco  le  mie  peiie — 
Fate  che  1'amto  bene 
Me  vengo  a  con  solar." 

(Ah,  calm,  O  Heaven,  in  my  sad  breast 
For  e'en  a  while  this  grief. 
Come,  spouse  beloved,  although  brief 
Thy  stay.     It  consolation  brings.) 

There  was  silence  for  a   moment  following  his 


Long  fellows  Love  of  Music,  185 

words,  and  the  faint  chords  of  the  prelude  recom 
mencing,  his  request  was  complied  with.  After  that 
there  was  no  more  music.  The  night  was  still  and 
soft,  and  we  all  adjourned  to  the  terrace  overlooking 
the  sea. 

The  poet,  enveloped  in  his  long  cloak,  sat  in  an 
arm-chair  facing  the  water,  and  I  looked  at  him 
almost  expecting  to  see  a  saint's  halo  descend  upon 
his  head.  The  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and 
the  firmament  glittered  with  its  myriad  of  stars.  A 
breeze,  unusually  soft  for  night,  fluttered  gently  in 
and  out,  stirring  the  almost  tropical  verdure  at  Nahant 
with  a  faint  rustle.  The  sea,  like  a  fountain  overrun 
with  liquid  silver,  swept  its  long  train  of  heaven- 
lighted  waves  back  and  forth  upon  the  strand,  up 
and  down  the  little  beach,  and  yet  out  again  to  the 
middle  of  the  water  lying  between  Nahant  and 
Lynn. 

Mr.  Appleton's  yacht,  the  pretty  "  Alice,"  lay 
out  from  the  shore.  Mr.  Longfellow  was  very  fond 
of  her.  She  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  1866;  but 
to-night,  bathed  in  moonlight,  she  made  a  white 


1 86  Longfellow  s  Love  of  Music. 

speck  on  the  wave,  and  seemed  more  a  phantom  than 
a  real  sloop.  Her  dainty  mast  leaned  so  timidly 
against  the  sky  that  even  the  shadow  was  unearthly. 
One  half  expected  it  to  appear  and  disappear  as  did 
Heinrich  Hudson's,  the  night  that  poor  Eip  Yan 
Winkle  entered  upon  his  twenty  years'  sleep. 

The  poet  sat  and  gazed  upon  the  sea,  upon  the 
moon,  upon  the  stars,  and  the  while  his  face  shone 
with  a  heavenly  brightness  that  completely  illumined 
it.  The  rays  from  the  majestic  orb  silvered  anew  his 
snowy  hair,  crept  cunningly  in  and  out  of  his  beard, 
and  danced  over  his  vesture  with  elf -like  grace,  and 
inimitable  friendliness. 

They  seemed  to  say,  "  You  belong  to  us — you  are 
not  of  earth,  but  part  of  a  heavenly  body  in  the 
great  plan  of  Nature,  given  for  the  world's  benefit ; 
and  so  to-night  we  come  to  greet  you  with  affection 
ate  love  and  the  kindred  message  which  emanates 
from  souls  that  only  haunt  the  earth  but  belong 
really  to  a  higher  power.  Thus  the  Queen  of  Night 
sends  greetings  to  the  King  of  Poetry." 

They  flickered  on,  brighter  and  stronger,  until 


Longfellow  s  Love  of  Music.  187 

his  form  gleamed  with  light  and  his  face  looked  like 
that  of  one  of  the  saints  of  old  receiving  the  heav 
enly  benediction.  The  fire  of  his  soul  glittered  in 
his  bine  eyes,  like  sapphires  when  the  sun  shines  on 
them. 

He  sat  there  in  his  old  age,  a  patriarch  whom  not 
only  the  smiles  of  day  but  of  night  shone  upon — 
loved  by  all  the  world  and  revered  by  those  who 
could  know  the  innate  purity  and  tranquillity  of  his 
home  life,  with  the  mantle  of  a  fame  fallen  upon  his 
shoulder,  whose  warmth  outshone  Haephestus'  fires, 
and  cloaked  him  with  a  dignity  and  immortality  that 
the  world  has  rarely  seen. 

Long  he  sat  musing,  and  no  one  disturbed  his 
revery.  Miss  Annie  had  been  swinging  in  her  ham 
mock,  but  finally  got  up  and  went  with  some  of  the 
party  a  bit  of  the  way  from  the  house,  to  a  famous 
ravine  or  drift  in  the  rocks,  which,  when  the  moon 
shone  down  upon  it,  was  said  to  be  surpassingly 
lovely. 

Not  caring  for  a  nearer  view  than  could  be  had 
from  the  balcony,  I  did  not  go,  but  remained  beside 


1 88  Longfellow  s  Love  of  Music. 

the  poet — who,  while  quiet  and  melancholy,  was  not 
so  silent  as  heretofore.  He  spoke  with  more  than  his 
accustomed  gentleness  of  voice,  but  I  could  see  that 
he  was  in  no  mood  for  conversation  ;  nor  did  he  care 
to  be  alone  —  he  simply  seemed  permeated  with  a 
great  sense  of  quietness  and  calm,  and  his  body 
showed  the  utter  restfulness  of  his  soul  by  its  im 
movability  and  statue-like  repose. 

While  we  were  sitting,  each  one  wrapped  in 
thought,  a  burst  of  music  rang  out  on  the  air,  and 
the  sounds  came  from  some  distance,  borne  directly 
by  the  wind  towards  the  house. 

A  regiment  of  Boston  militia  had  been  camping 
out  at  Nahant  for  some  time,  and  every  evening  they 
held  a  sort  of  reception  after  their  drill.  Evidently 
the  day's  ceremonies  were  ended,  and  this  was  the 
"  home  march  for  everybody." 

The  poet  looked  up  quickly  and  lent  a  listening 
ear.  Again  I  noticed  in  his  face  the  same  expression 
as  when  listening  to  the  "  Otello,"  and  he  said  : 

"What  can  be  more  delightful  than  sounds  of 
melody  wafted  to  one  from  some  mysterious  source  ! 


Long fe How  s  Love  of  Music.  189 

When  night  has  fallen,  and  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
daily  strife  are  hushed  by  the  murmur  of  the  winds 
among  the  leaves  and  the  crash  of  the  breakers 
against  the  shore,  all  nature  seems  in  harmony  with 
man,  and  it  only  needs  the  added  charm  of  that  dis 
tant  music  to  complete  the  beauty  of  this  evening." 

"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  dear  master,"  said  I,  in 
terrupting  him.  "  Will  you  not  recite  to  me  your 
poem  of " 

"The  Day  is  Done?"  said  he,  interrupting  me 
sadly.  "  Certainly,  if  it  will  give  you  pleasure.  I 
mention  'The  Pay  is  Done,'  because  I  know  you 
must  have  referred  to  that." 

He  then  commenced  the  first  stanza  and  recited 
until  the  end  with  a  clear,  sweet  voice,  exquisitely 
modulated,  and  a  depth  of  earnestness  in  his  tones 
which  no  one  in  the  world  could  have  shown  as  well 
as  he.  I  never  tire  of  reading  this  poem,  and  say  it 
over  to  myself  so  often  that  every  word  is  stamped 
upon  my  memory.  He  began  : 


"  The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  night, 


190  Longfelloivs  Love  of  Music. 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward, 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

"  I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist. 

"  A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

"  And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  silently  steal  away." 

The  last  words  died  out  to  a  faint  murmur,  but 
the  old  poet's  face  still  bore  its  inspired  look. 
Thanking  him  with  deep  feeling,  I  prepared  to  say 
"  good-night,"  as  the  air  was  getting  a  little  chill, 
and  I  feared  keeping  him  any  longer;  also — may  I 
say  it  ?— I  wished  to  retire  before  the  sound  of  any 
other  voice  could  disturb  the  lingering  memory  of 
the  professor's  inspired  tones.  As  1  said  "  good 
night  "  he  arose,  and  spoke  with  infinite  tenderness : 

"God  bless  you,  <  chere  enfant?  and  may  your 
life  be  one  of  happiness  and  content ;  dormez  lien, 
and  good-night." 


Longfellow  s  Love  of  Music.  191 

He  bowed  with  courtly  grace,  and  led  me  through 
the  still  opened  window  back  to  the  drawing-room. 
I  left  him,  but,  turning,  I  said : 

"  Cher  maitre,  are  you  not  thinking  of  soon 
taking  your  rest  ?  This  has  been  a  long  and  tiresome 
day  for  you,  I  fear,  although  to  me  it  has  been  so 
enjoyable." 

I  looked  at  his  face,  and  it  seemed  older  than 
usual,  and  I  knew  he  must  be  tired,  although  he 


"  1  cannot  go  just  yet ;  besides,  I  think  I  hear 
voices,  and  I  must  see  my  daughter  to  say  good 
night.  I  could  not  sleep  were  I  to  retire  now; 
again,  bonne  nuit" 

Sleep  I  I  could  not  sleep  myself,  but  lay  think 
ing  over  the  day's  events  for  some  time.  Of  the 
many  great  men  whom  it  had  been  my  fortune  to 
meet,  none,  not  one,  could  claim  to  be  the  man  that 
Longfellow  is.  His  is  a  soul  that  looks  straight 
ahead,  and  while  he  must  have  known  all  the  fascina 
tion  that  comes  to  the  life  of  a  public  man,  yet  never, 
in  the  slightest  way,  did  a  too  worldly  sentiment 


192  Longfellow  s  Love  of  Music. 

ever  escape  him,  or  a  spoken  thought,  that  was  not 
pure  and  wholesome,  ever  pass  his  lips.  I  felt  that 
this  man  was  one  among  men,  perhaps  the  only  poet 
whose  inner  life  lias  been  one  beautiful  hymn,  and 
whose  dailv  intercourse  with  the  world  left  not  one 
imprint  on  the  stainless  character,  one  mark  by 
which  the  fatal  traces  of  passion  and  worldliness 
could  ever  show  themselves,  other  than  in  a  lofty 
sense.  I  could  not  help  praying  that  one  whose 
influence  was  so  grand  and  puissant,  might  defy,  for 
many  years  to  come,  the  approach  of  the  angel 
whose  visit  leaves  only  desolation  behind. 


CHAPTER   XY. 

LONGFELLOW  IS    INTERESTED    IN  VICTOR   HUGO. 

"  A  cold,  uninterrupted  rain. 
That  washed  each  southern  window-pane 
And  made  a  river  of  the  road; 
A  sea  of  mist  that  overflowed 
The  house,  the  barn,  the  gilded  vane, 
And  drowned  the  upland  and  the  plain, 
Through  which  the  cak-leaves  broad  and  high 
Like  phantom  ships  went  drifting  by." 

TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN,  Part  II. 

"  Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations, 
But  the  endeavor  for  the  self-same  ends, 
With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations." 

DEDICATION. 

OR  two  days  the  rain  has  kept  us  within 
doors  and  I  can  scarcely  say  that  I  regret 
it,  as  the  poet  has  been  indefatigable  in 
his  efforts  to  keep  us  enlivened,  and  I 

have  had   the  rare   treat  of   hearing  him  speak  at 
9  [193] 


194     Longfellow  is  Interested  in    Victor  Hugo. 

length  on  many  subjects,  more  or  less  interesting. 
The  hours  passed  under  his  roof  have  constituted  the 
greatest  intellectual  event  of  my  life-time.  His 
beautiful  ideas,  and  sweet  way  of  expressing  them, 
are  filled  with  an  ineffable  charm,  and  his  voice  is  in 
keeping  with  his  poetic  face  ami  appearance. 

I  had  a  copy  of  "  Les  Travailleurs  de  la  Mer  "  in 
my  hand  when  I  came  down-stairs  late  in  the  after 
noon,  and  the  professor  noticed  it. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  reading  Victor  Hugo," 
said  he,  amiably  ;  "  he  is  a  great  poet  and  writer,  and 
his  works,  besides  possessing  infinite  charm  and  vigor, 
are  really  instructive.  Of  course  his  great  forte  is  in 
his  imaginative  and  descriptive  power.  He  is  grand 
i  and  pathetic." 

I  interrupted : 

"  I  know  the  old  poet  so  well,  that  I  read  his 
writings  with  still  more  pleasure,  however.  His 
description  of  the  deyil-fish  in  this  is  so  terribly 
graphic  that  I  screamed  out  all  alone  by  myself  just 
an  hour  since,  as  if  really  in  the  clutches  of  this  hor 
rible  monster.  I  think  I  have  learned  more  of  the 


Long fc How  is  Interested  in    Victor  Hugo.     195 

wonders  of  the  deep  from  this,  than  any  other  story 
I  ever  read.  His  imagination,  as  you  say,  is  so  ex 
traordinary  that  one  scarcely  knows  where  to  draw 
the  line  between  it  and  reality." 

Mr.  Longfellow  said  quickly,  "  You  know  Victor 
Hugo  ?  Pray  tell  me  about  him.  Strange  to  say  I 
never  saw  him  but  once,  and  then  at  a  distance  ?" 

I  could  not  help  smiling  as  the  poet  spoke,  and 
he  said,  "  Why  do  you  smile  ?" 

"You  great  writers,"  I  answered  readily,  "all 
want  to  know  about  each  other.  The  last  time  I  was 
at  his  house  he  asked  about  you,  using  exactly  the 
same  words,  but  alas !  not  knowing  you  then  per 
sonally,  I  could  tell  him  nothing.  On  the  contrary, 
I  can  tell  you  everything  of  him,  if  you  care  to 
hear." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Longfellow,  "what  kind  of  a 
man  he  is,  how  he  lives,  and  if  it  be  true,  as  people 
say,  that  he  sits  on  a  throne  in  his  own  house  ?" 

This  last  half  laughingly. 

"Prepare  for  a  long  recital,"  said  I,  jestingly, 
and  began  : 


196     Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo. 


"  Victor  Hugo  lived  at  No.  21  Rue  do  Clichy,  in 
Paris,  wlien  I  first  knew  him.  Now  he  lias  removed 
to  a  fine  house  near  the  Arc  du  Triomphe  in  Avenue 
d'Eylau,  I  believe,  named  "  Avenue  Victor  Hugo" 
in  honor  of  the  poet.  He  used  to  receive  at  his 
house  every  Thursday  and  Sunday  evenings,  and 
around  him  were  gathered  the  principal  literary 
lights  of  France.  He  does  not  <  sit  upon  a  throne,' 
as  many  have  said,  but  his  arm-chair  is  so  large  and 
peculiar  in  shape,  that  devotees  of  the  mansion  have 
nicknamed  it  *  le  tvone  du  Maitre,'  and  I  suppose 
for  all  time  it  will  retain  its  title. 

"  His  dwelling-place  was  a  very  large  apartment, 
with  ample  rooms.  Erom  the  moment  the  door 
opened  into  the  antechamber  all  was  light  and  com 
fort.  The  walls  of  the  reception  and  drawing-rooms 
were  hung  with  Venetian  tapestry  in  red  and  gold. 
Eich  stripes  of  embroidered  yellow  satin  alternated 
with  ones  of  the  same  size  in  scarlet  velvet.  The 
ceiling  was  covered  in  the  same  way,  and  held  in  the 
center  a  superb  chandelier  of  gold  and  rock  crystal, 
glittering  with  a  thousand  lights  furnish'ed  by  innu- 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo.     197 

merable  waxen  tapers.  You  know  it  is  considered 
vulgar  to  use  gas  in  a  salon  in  Paris.  All  around  the 
room  were  curiously-carved  magnificent  cabinets  in 
renaissance  and  Venetian  work.  They  were  filled 
with  medals  and  collections  of  coins,  bric-a-brac,  and 
valuable  souvenirs,  exquisite  in  taste  and  lavish  in 
quantity. 

"  Strange  to  say,  not  a  book  was  to  be  seen,  nor 
was  there  a  piano.  Five  immense  oval  mirrors  (Ve 
netian)  hung  around  the  room  in  various  places,  and 
the  intervening  panels  of  the  principal  apartment 
were  hung  with  superb  renaissance  candelabra,  some 
of  them  centuries  old,  and  giving  the  apartment  a 
very  quaint  Louis-the-Fourteenth  look,  and  a  real 
old-fashioned  air.  It  is  the  sort  of  room  one  would 
expect  to  find  Yictor  Hugo  in.  The  furniture  was 
of  dark  crimson  velvet  and  rosewood.  The  win 
dows,  heavily-curtained,  had  portieres  or  hangings  of 
the  same  material  at  the  doors.  There  was  a  circular 
divan  or  dos-a-dos  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and 
near  the  fire-place,  the  comfortable  arm-chair  that  is 
called  the  master's  throne. 


198     Longfellow  is  Interested  in    Victor  Hugo. 

"  The  poet  is  of  medium  height,  and  rather  stout ; 
his  hair  and  beard  are  quite  gray,  and  while  the  one 
is  ample,  the  other  is  very  scant,  his  head  being  al 
most  bald.  He  has  a  kind  face,  heavily  furrowed, 
and  rather  sad.  His  smile  is  a  pleasant  one,  and  is 
the  only  beautiful  thing  about  his  countenance, 
which  is  often  dark  and  troubled.  His  brow  bears 
the  impress  of  intense  thought.  His  eyes  are  pro 
found  and  steady:  I  cannot  tell  whether  they  are 
black  or  gray,  but  they  seem  nearer  a  brownish  hazel 
than  either,  and  are  very  expressive  without  being 
positively  remarkable.  He  is  a  perfect  gentleman  of 
the  old  school,  and  receives  his  guests  with  French 
ceremony,  not  unmixed  with  a  certain  genial  friendli 
ness  that  is  very  frank  and  seemingly  sincere. 

"  On  the  occasion  of  one  visit  to  him  I  had  the 
honor  of  crowning  him  with  a  laurel  wreath  on  the 
anniversary  of  his  seventy-third  birth-day. 

"  By  the  way,  maestro,"  turning  to  Longfellow, 
ahe  was  born  the  twenty-sixth  of  February,  and 
yourself  the  twenty-seventh  of  the  same  month,  so 
you  see  that  Calliope  had  you  both  in  her  mind  about 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Huge.     199 


the  same  time,  although  several  years  elapsed   be 
tween." 

Our  poet  interrupted. 

" Never  mind  me,"  said  he,  smiling;  "you  can 
not  tell  how  interested  I  am  to  hear  more  of  Victor 
Hugo.  What  else  happened  that  evening  ?" 

"  Several  Americans  in  Paris,"  I  continued,  "  who 
had  long  enjoyed  his  hospitality  and  the  charm  of 
his  society,  decided  on  presenting  him  with  the 
wreath  and  some  flowers  as  a  slight  testimonial  of 
their  remembrance. 

"  I  was  selected  for  the  proud  office  of  placing 
the  laurel  on  his  honored  head,  also  to  read  two  origi 
nal  poems  written  for  the  occasion  by  Arsene  IIous- 
saye,  the  celebrated  French  novelist.  I  nearly  killed 
myself  going  up  some  rickety  stairs— I  don't  know 
how  many — in  the  Palais  Royale,  to  get  M.  Martcl, 
of  the  Theatre  Franchise,  to  teach  me  how  to  recite 
them  properly. 

"  These  are  the  lines,  and,  my  French  being  per 
ilous  in  those  days,  I  think  I  must  have  learned  them 
parrot-fashion,  by  dint  of  repeating  them  an  hundred 


2OO     Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo. 


times  or  more.     The  accent  must  have  been,  to  say 
the  least,  peculiar,  and  I  wonder  I  ever  dared  try  it. 

"'TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

1. 

"  '  Ton  g6nie  est  la  cime  mix  eblouissementa 
La  nature  sourit  a  tes  apotheoses 
La  vigne  est  la  Foret  en  leurs  metamorphoses 
Se  traduissent  tes  vers,  et  content  tes  romans. 

2. 

"  4Ton  ggnie  est  la  source  ou  boivent  les  amants 
Courrant  par  les  jardins  tout  parfume"  cles  roses 
S'enivrant  du  parfum  des  fleurs  blanches  et  roses 
Et  jetant  a  la  mer,  perles  et  diamants. 

3. 

"  'Ton  ge"nie  est  un  ciel  en  sa  beaute"  premiere 
Quand  le  jeune  solcil  rayonne  gpanoni 
Quand  les  e"toiles  d'or  chantent  1'hymn  inoui. 

4. 

"  '  Ton  ge*nie  est  un  monde  oil  Dieu  met  sa  lumi£re 
Parceque  ton  esprit  cherche  la  verite, 
Ton  §,me  rinfini  et  ton  coeur  I'luimanit6.' 

"Imagine  after  that  the  sensation.  Victor  Hugo 
jumped  up  and  embraced  Arsene  Houssaye,  and 
they  kissed  each  other  on  both  cheeks  in  real  French 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in    Victor  Hugo.     20 1 

fashion.  Everybody  came  forward  to  congratulate 
the  author  of  the  verses  and  the  one  to  whom  they 
were  addressed  ;  the  flowers  were  presented,  and  such 
well-known  persons  as  Louis  Blanc,  Ernest  de  Her- 
villy,  Richard  Lesclide,  Paul  LeEoy,  Theo.  de  Banne- 
ville,  and  a  host  of  others,  among  whom  was  our  Amer 
ican  Minister,  your  friend  Hon.  E.  B.  Washburne,  all 
crowded  up  to  get  a  word  with  the  poet.  He  hav 
ing  previously  said  that  his  anniversary  was  a  sad 
day,  'triste  jour,'  and  one  that  he  spent  in  absolute 
solitude,  we  were  obliged  to  celebrate  the  event  the 
evening  before,  and  Arsene  Houssaye,  anticipating 
his  oft-reiterated  words,  had  prepared  still  another 
poem,  which  I  read,  and  which  seems  to  me  prettier 
even  than  the  first. 

"  <  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE. 

1. 

**  '  Dimanche  tu  dissais,  ne  chantons  pas  ma  f£te 
Puisqu'  une  annSe  encore  m'approche  du  tombeau 
L'amour  passe  a  la  mort  le  feu  de  son  flambeau, 
Le  cypres  est  le  seul  bouquet  qui  ceint  ma  tete. 


2O2     Longfelloiv  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo. 


"  'Tu  ne  crains  pus  la  mort,  sourde,  aveugle  et  tnuette 
Ce  n'est  pas  pour  Hugo  qui  chantc  le  corbeau 
Continue  a  chercher  le  vrai  conime  le  beau 
Les  homines  comme  toi  sont  des  Dieu,  O  Po6t. 

B. 

"  l  La  jeunessc  a  trcaipie  ton  ame!     Tu  vivras 
Les  siecles  ne  seront  pour  toi  que  des  ann£es 
Quaud  Dieu  t'appellera  vers  d'autres  destinies. 


"  '  C'est  rimmortalitg  qui  t'ouvrira  ses  bras 

Tou jours  jenne  et  toujours  belle  c'est  le  mysteire 
Tu  seras  chez  les  Dieux,  mais  sans  quitter  la  terre.' " 

"  How  beautiful,"  said  Longfellow,  when  I  had 
finished,  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  he  was  pleased,  what 
did  he  say  ?" 

"  Say  -  '  I  repeated.  "  He  didn't  say  any 
thing,  but  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes  and  again  he 
tendered  his  hand  to  the  author,  and  they  embraced 
each  other  as  before,  although  this  time  they  were 
visibly  much  moved;  we  spent  a  very  delightful 
evening,  and  when  the  last  person  had  dispersed  the 
midnight  bells  were  striking  all  over  Paris.  I  used 
to  spend  every  Thursday  at  his  house,  and  usually 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo.     203 

Sunday  evenings.    Monday  was  a  special  day,  but  I 
remember  once  when  I  was  there,  after  spending  a 
long  time'  in  discussion,  a  little  before  ten,  we  went 
out  to  have  some  refreshment.     He  sat  at  the  head 
of    the    table,    with   his   dear   old   friend   Madame 
Drouet  his  vis-a-vis.      There  were  fourteen   people 
present,  and  he  made  a  charming  host,  talking  now 
and  then  himself,  drawing   out   the  others,  and  all 
the  while  he  was  eating  sliced  oranges  with  great 
appetite,  and  drinking  some  fine  old   burgundy,  to 
which  he  added  three  large  lumps  of  sugar  to  each 
half-glass,  stirring  it  vigorously,  and  then  quaffing 
two-thirds  of  it  at  a  single  draught.     I  have   seen 
him  so  many  times,  but  remember  also  particularly 
one  evening,  when  he  commenced  talking  on  art  and 
the   galleries   in    Holland   and  Belgium.     It   was  a 
superb  lecture,  aud  he  talked  unremittingly  for  two 
hours.     Every  word  that  comes  out  of  his  mouth  is 
a  pearl  of  great  price.     I  never  in  my  life  learned  so 
much  before  of    the   Flemish    school   of    painting, 
and  his  description  of  certain  pictures  was  so  perfect 
that  on  a  subsequent  visit  t.o  Holland   I  recognized 


2O4     Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo. 

them  from  his  describing,  without  the  aid  of  guide 
or  catalogue.  He  is  a  remarkable  speaker,  and  oh  ! 
so  eloquent.  He  is  very  simple  in  his  manners,  and 
never  before  have  I  heard  any  one  who  could  pay  a 
more  delightful  compliment  than  he. 

"  To  the  young  poets  who  flock  around  him  and 
fill  his  rooms,  he  is  especially  amiable,  and  in  speak 
ing  of  his  way  of  complimenting  I  refer  more  par 
ticularly  to  them,  as  he  always  found  some  delicate, 
sweet  thing  to  say  just  in  the  moment  when  it  was 
least  expected,  and  there  was  a  subtleness  about  his 
remarks  that  was  often  very  wonderful. 

"  Strange  to  say,  he  speaks  of  the  time  when  he 
was  exiled  as  one  might  refer  to  a  dinner,  without 
emotion,  without  sentiment,  simply  a  recurrence  to 
fact. 

"  A  great  many  titled  people  come  to  see  him,  in 
fact,  more  noblemen  than  commoners,  but  no  one  is 
called  otherwise  than  simple  "Monsieur."  Victor 
Hugo  himself  is  always  addressed  as  "Cher  maitre," 
by  both  ladies  and  gentlemen.  The  latter  sometimes 
kiss  his  hand  affectionately,  if  they  be  students  or 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo.     205 

young  aspirants  for  literary  honors,  while  Victor 
Hugo  never  kisses  a  lady's  hand,  but  always  her  wrist. 
"  He  certainly  is  original,  and  that  to  me  is 
charming.  His  speech  is  soft  and  insinuating,  and 
while  any  one  else  is  talking  he  never  takes  his  eyes 
from  their  face,  but  sits  with  his  chin  propped 
against  his  hand,  the  very  picture  of  expectant  curi 
osity  and  serious  attention.  He  puts  questions  with 
great  adroitness,  and  is  as  grave  as  a  lawyer  while 
awaiting  a  response. 

"  Although  he  lived  so  long  a  time  at  Guernsey, 
on  the  coast  of  England,  he  speaks  but  little  English. 
But  I  am  sure  he  knows  the  language  as  well  as  we, 
from  the  look  on  his  face,  when  one  speaks  it.  He 
always  says,  '  Oh,  my  son  Charles  spoke  beautifully,' 
referring  to  English,  and  his  knowledge  of  Shakes 
peare  was  remarkable.  'Pauvre  Charles,'  then  he 
would  sigh,  and  I  do  not  wonder ;  the  loss  of  such  a 
man  to  the  world  of  letters  was  something,  but  the 
loss  of  such  a  son  was  enough  to  sadden  any  father." 
"  By  the  way,"  said  Longfellow,  "  he  did  know 
Shakespeare,  because  his  translation  of  the  English 


206     Longfellow  in  Interested  in    Victor  Hugo. 

bard's  noted  works  is  the  most  complete  and  faithful 
to  the  text  of  any  published  in  the  French  language. 
It  is  paying  him  a  truthful  compliment  to  say  that 
his  work  will  stand  any  amount  of  close  reading  and 
criticism." 

"  Francois  Charles  Hugo,  as  he  was  called,  left 
two  children,  and  these  little  ones  are  the  delight  of 
Victor  Hugo's  life.  He  is  very  fond  of  his  daughter- 
in-law,  who  has  since  married  Mr.  Henry  Lockroy,  of 
the  French  Parliament,  and  he  passes  most  of  his 
time  with  his  beloved  grandchildren,  playing  with 
them  quite  alone. 

"  But  how  I  am  rambling  on,  dear  master,"  said 
I,  turning  to  Longfellow,  "  and  I  have  not  yet  told 
you  of  what  he  said  of  your  own  poems." 

Longfellow  looked  up  sweetly. 

"  I  cannot  tell  how  interesting  it  has  been,"  said 
he;  "nor  how  much  I  wish  that  I  had  met  him. 
Pray  go  on." 

"  He  knows  your  principal  poems  by  heart,  and 
pronounces  most  of  them  beautifully  ;  and  he  seems 
equally  well  acquainted  with  the  text  and  subject 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo.     207 

He  calls  you  a  '  heart-reader,'  and  referred  to  the  sen 
timent  and  purity  of  your  writings.  He  liked  '  Hia 
watha  '  particularly ;  but  it  was  amusing  to  hear  him 
pronounce  the  word.  Excuse  me,  but  it  was  a 
mouthful.  He  got  on  beautifully  until  he  came  to 
the  w  commencing  the  third  syllable,  when  his 
mouth  got  into  a  twist,  and  poor  '  watha '  was  stran 
gled  between  a  Dutch  v  and  an  Italian  a  that  threat 
ened  to  obliterate  every  vestige  of  the  original  sound 
of  the  letters.  Of  course  I  laughed,  and  everybody 
else  appreciated  the  poet's  peculiar  pronunciation  of 
English.  As  Victor  Hugo  good-naturedly  smiled 
himself,  his  satellites  knew  that  they  could  chime  in 
with  him,  and  everybody  with  a  proper  respect  still 
seemed  to  enjoy  his  English  immensely. 

"  He  is  very  kind  to  Americans,  and  seems  par 
ticularly  pleased  to  receive  them  in  his  house.  He 
longs  to  visit  America,  but  I  am  afraid  he  never  will. 
He  calls  this  <  the  country  of  wonders'— 'le  pays  dcs 
merveilles  '—and  is  really  and  genuinely  enthusiastic 
when  talking  about  it." 

In  speaking  of  his  home  life,  I  said  that  he  spent 


2o8     Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo. 


much  time  with  his  "little"  grandchildren.  I  am 
afraid  I  must  alter  that  statement,  as  they  are  no 
longer  so  "  little,"  and  he  is  now  a  Senator,  so  of 
course  things  are  much  changed.  He  is  hale  and 
hearty,  and  when  he  goes  about  he  rides  on  the  tops 
of  omnibuses  so  that  he  can  "  study  character,"  as  he 
expresses  it.  No  one  clambers  up  with  readier  step 
than  he,  and  he  sometimes  smokes  a  pipe  with  great 
stolidity  of  countenance,  and  looks  around  his  dear 
Paris  that  he  can  never  see  too  much  of.  He  chats 
with  his  elbow-neighbor  on  the  'bus,  whether  prince 
or  laborer,  with  the  greatest  friendliness  imaginable, 
and  when  he  gets  down  goes  off  with  right  good  will, 
saluted  reverentially  by  everybody  around  him.  Not 
a  working-man  in  his  district  but  knows  him,  and  his 
face  is  as  familiar  to  the  regular  Parisian  as  the  light 
of  the  sun  or  his  own  famous  JSTotre  Dame  de  Paris. 
He  is  really  beloved  by  the  people,  and  is  vastly  fond 
of  talking  of  the  "  Model  Republic — America,"  and 
the  "  Great  Republic— France." 

"When   you   see   him,"    said   Longfellow,   with 
hearty    sincerity,  "present   him  my  special  compli- 


Longfellow  is  Interested  in   Victor  Hugo.     209 

ments.  If  I  ever  go  to  Paris  again  I  snail  not  fail  to 
pay  him  a  visit ;  and  in  the  meantime  do  not  forget 
to  tell  him  how  he  is  loved  and  appreciated  in 
America,  and  how  honored  I  shall  be  to  shake  him 
by  the  hand." 


CHAPTER  XYL 

SKETCHES   DKAWN    FROM    LIFE. 

"  Around  the  fireside,  at  tlieir  ease, 
There  sat  a  group  of  friends,  entranced 
With  the  delicious  melodies; 
Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down, 
To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak  trees: 
The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 
Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced, 
And,  though  of  different  lands  and  speech, 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased,  and  please, 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays, 
Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all, 
Perchance  uncouthly,  as  the  blaze 
With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

"  A  young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there; 
In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred, 
Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 
Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain, 

[210] 


Sketches  Drawn  from  Life.  211 


And  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 
After  Palermo's  fatal  siege, 
Across  the  western  seas  he  fled." 

TALES  OF  A  AVAYSIDE  INN. — PRELUDE. 

OME  months  had  pasaed  since  my  Nahant 
visit  when  I  went  again  to  Cambridge. 
It  was  Christmas  night,  and  besides  Signor 
Monti,  a  great  friend  of  the  professor, 
my  husband  and  myself  were  the  only  strangers 
present,  The  house  was  a  beautiful  picture  in  itself, 
and  the  hanging  wreaths  and  garlands  showed  the 
presence  of  the  holy  natal  tide.  The  poet  was  as 
usual  extremely  courteous  and  kind,  and  the  evening 
passed  with  delightful  charm.  I  recognized  in  Mr. 
Monti  an  old  friend  of  the  professor,  and  he  said  to 
me  during  the  dinner  : 

"  This  is  the  young  Sicilian  that  I  have  known  so 
long,  and  love  so  well,"  looking  as  he  spoke  directly 
toward  Mr.  Monti  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

Signor   Monti  was  evidently  gratified,  and  said, 
with  ready  grace,  speaking  our  language  perfectly  : 
u  Yes,  I  arn  the  once  young,  now   old  Sicilian 


212  Sketches  Drawn  from  Life. 

mentioned  in  '  The  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.'  Did  you 
not  recognize  me  ?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  I  heartily,  "  I  ought  to  have 
done  so  at  once,  but  not  thinking  about  it,  my  imagi 
nation  has  proven  itself  excessively  torpid.  It  never 
entered  my  mind  that  you  were  the  real  c  Signor 
Luigi '  spoken  to  by  the  Jew ;  but,"  turning  to  Loog- 
fellow,  "  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Are  all  of  the 
characters  bona  fide  in  the  poem,  and  may  I  know 
who  they  are  ?" 

Longfellow  looked  up  quite  gayly,  and  said, 

"Yes,  I  think  you  may,  but  Mr.  Monti  shall 
answer.  Let  him  tell  the  story." 

Mr.  Monti  would  not  hear  to  that,  so  Mr.  Long 
fellow  began  to  speak.  "  Mr.  Monti  and  his  friends 
used  to  steal  away  every  summer  for  their  vacation 
to  the  little  town  of  Sudbury,  not  far  from  Boston, 
and  they  had  such  fine  times  among  themselves,  I 
really  thought  that  I  should  like  to  join  their  party 
to  pass  my  next  summer.  They  insisted  on  my  com 
ing,  and  I  was  so  charmed  with  the  place  that  I  im 
mediately  conceived  my  poem, '  The  Tales  of  a  Way- 


SkctcJies  Drawn  from  Life.  213 

side  Inn.'  The  house,  although  quaint  and  old-fash 
ioned,  was  interesting  in  one  way.  Three  pairs  of 
lovers  used  to  steal  in  and  out  of  the  old  tavern,  and 
three  modest  fiancees  would  regularly  come  to  the 
trysting-place  in  the  vine-embowered  garden.  Later 
on  the  same  three  couples  were  married  in  fine  style, 
and  took  each  other  for  better  or  worse.  One  was 
Monti  and  his  wife,  the  other  was  the  poet  Theo phi- 
Ins  Parsons,  and  the  third  couple  was  Dr.  Parsons, 
sister  and  her  fiance. 

"  Ah !  those  were  happy  times.  Why,  do  you 
know,  Monti  was  so  fond  of  the  place,  that  he  went 
there  for  twelve  consecutive  seasons,  and  1  don't 
know  but  the  others  did  the  same,  now  that  I  think 
of  it.  I  went  a  number  of  times  until  the  inn  fell 
into  disuse,  and  after  my  poem  was  finished,  it  was 
strange  to  say,  almost  abandoned  by  our  old  party. 
Still  it  was  a  charming  spot,  and  so  home-like.  The 
old  inn  is  standing  now,  although  sadly  changed,  and 
I  fear  that  of  the  number  who  once  passed  so  many 
happy  hours  there,  not  one  to-day  would  think  of 


214  Sketches  Drawn  from  Life. 


returning  unless  by  way  of  a  souvenir  for  Auld  Lang 
Syne." 

"  But  the  other  characters,"  I  interrupted,  "  who 
were  they?  did  they  really  exist?" 

"Really,"  said  the  poet,  laughing;  "why,  of 
course.  Professor  Daniel  Treadwell  was  the  Theo 
logian  ;  Henry  Wales,  Esq.,  was  the  Student ;  Lyman 
Howe  was  the  Landlord,  and  our  Italian  friend  here 
before  you  was  and  is  Luigi  Monti,  the  Sicilian." 

"The  only  fictitious  character,"  interrupted  the 
Signor,  "was  the  Jew.  That  is  Mr.  Longfellow's 

O 

secret,  he  will  never  tell  who  he  was  ;  but  you  have 
forgotten  to  say  that  the  musician  was  Ole  Bull," 
continued  Mr.  Monti.  "I  am  sure  rnadame  must 
often  have  heard  him  play." 

"Who,"  said  I  quickly,  "has  not  heard  of  the 
*  Wizard  of  the  North  '?  and  what  American  but  has 
listened  to  his  playing?  I  knew  him  well.  He  was 
a  charming  gentleman,  besides  being  a  good  story 
teller — and  such  an  amiable  man,  while  the  whole 
world  acknowledged  his  wondrous  talent." 

Mr.  Monti  evidently  did  not  intend  letting  the 


Sketches  Drawn  from  Life.  215 


professor  off  about  the  unknown  character  in  tlio 
"  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn."  Turning  to  him,  he  said, 
with  Italian  perverseness : 

"  Confess  the  Jew  was "     The  poet,  with  a 

cunning  smile,  broke  in  : 

"  *  A  Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant, 

With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there  ; 
Vendor  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 
And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant.' 

I  am  sure,"  continuing  helplessly,  "  I  could  not 
describe  him  better  than  that.  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

Monti  laughed  heartily,  and  gave  in  that  the 
Professor  was  altogether  too  clever  for  him.  He 
would  give  up  trying  to  find  out  who  he  was.  But, 
he  added,  with  a  characteristic  gesture,  to  me,  later : 

"Many  have  wondered  who  the  Jew  was,  and 
between  ouselves,  I  don't  think  he  really  ever 
existed."  That  was  Italian- like,  and  so  droll.  Some 
way  I  liked  Mr.  Monti  better. 

After  dinner,  the  subject  of  bric-a-brac  came  up, 
and  the  professor  invited  us  to  his  son  Charles'  room 
to  see  some  rare  objects,  and  some  Japanese  paint- 


216  Sketches  Drawn  from  Life. 


ings.  On  the  way  from  tlic  upper  landing  I  stopped 
to  examine  some  carious  piece  of  mechanism,  which 
proved  to  be  the  poet's  gymnastic  apparatus.  He 
stepped  in  to  it  quite  glibly,  to  show  us  how  it 
worked,  and  stooping  over  began  to  raise  weights  in 
either  hand  with  astonishing  ease.  I  looked  on  in 
amazement.  How  strong  he  was,  and  after  din 
ner  too. 

"Come,"  said  he,  cheerily,  "you  try;  it's  very 
simple." 

I  stepped  on  to  the  platform  and  took  up  a  ring, 
struggled  tried  to  lift  it  up,  bent  over,  tried  again ; 
but  in  vain ;  then,  oh  horror !  I  heard  a  fiendish 
sound  as  of  stitches  giving  way ;  but  I  would  not 
give  up,  so  ventured  again — this  time  with  a  very 
red  face.  I  bravely  kept  my  post  until  the  practiced 
acrobat  came  forward  commiseratingly.  He  looked 
puzzled  and  said : 

"  What  is  it — your  muscle  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered  faintly,  "  I  think — I  know  it's 
my  dress.  You  see,  Parisian  waists  are  hardly  the 
thing  in  which  to  practice  gymnastics,  and —  " 


Sketches  Drawn  from  Life.  2 1 7 

"  Come  off  directly,"  said  the  professor,  severely. 
"  Why  did  you  not  speak  of  it  before  ?  "  half-relent 
ing.  "  Let  me  look."  He  then  turned  me  around  as 
if  I  had  been  a  lay  figure,  and  with  a  grave,  serious 
voice  said,  in  matter-of-fact  fashion,  "  Nothing  is 
spoiled — I  never  would  have  forgiven  myself  had 
that  dress  suffered."  Then  he  turned  the  poor 
offending  apparatus  nearer  the  wall,  with  paramount 
displeasure.  We  entered  his  son's  apartment.  It 
was  filled  with  beautiful  cabinets  in  Japanese  work, 
intricate  boxes,  fans,  chains,  carved  ivory  knick- 
knacks,  and  screens  innumerable,  that  stood  about  the 
place.  The  doors  were  paneled  with  Japanese  heads, 
and  some  paintings  hung  upon  the  walls. 

"  Look  well  at  them,"  said  the  poet  clearly, 
"  look  well,  and  tell  me  what  they  arc." 

I  saw  what  they  were,  but  Mr.  Longfellow's  voice 
stopped  me.  Suspecting  some  trick  I  refused  to 
answer,  and  he  said  with  his  eyes  full  of  fun  : 

"  No,  no,  this  is  not  jesting,"  quite  seriously  ; 
"  what  are  they  ?" 


2i8  Sketches  Drawn  from  Life. 

"  Unless  my  eyes -deceive  me,"  said  I,  "  they  are 
specimens  of  Japanese  oil-painting." 

"  That's  just  what  they  are,"  said  he,  composedly. 
"  I  thought  you  could  not  be  mistaken.  I  was  only 
trying  to  joke  about  them,  because  between  ourselves, 
one  can  see  they  are  Japanese ;  but  it's  very  hard," 
laughingly,  "  to  tell  what  else  they  are  intended  for. 
My  son  is  fond  of  this  sort  of  pictures,  but  to  me 
they  look  more  comical  than  beautiful.  I  always 
want  to  laugh  when  I  see  that  moon,"  pointing  to  a 
golden  face  on  the  canvas,  u  it  does  look  so  know- 

ing-" 

In  truth  it  was  a  droll  painting  to  look  at,  but  it 

was  in  reality  too  line  a  work  of  art  to  be  so  hardly 
criticised,  and  good  Mr.  Monti  would  riot  hear  of  our 
traducing  it  farther.  After  passing  a  delightful  half- 
hour  rummaging  about,  we  left  the  bric-a-brac  cham 
bers.  On  our  way  past  I  spied  the  now  disgraced 
apparatus.  "  Do  you  use  it  often  ?"  said  I  to  the 
poet. 

"  Every  morning,  regularly,"  he  responded  ;  "  it 
is  a  splendid  exercise,  and  of  positive  benefit  to  the 


Sketches  Drawn  from  Life.  219 

health.  I  would  not  miss  it."  We  sat  for  some  time 
in  the  beautiful  drawing-room,  and  Mr.  Longfellow 
was  very  animated  and  cheerful.  He  talked  on  many 
subjects  and  delightfully  of  Italy. 

"Ah  1"  he  repeated,  "  I  do  want  to  see  it  so  much. 
I  tell  you,  every  one  likes  France,  but  we  all  love 
Italy." 

"  This  is  the  twenty-fifth  Christmas  dinner  that 
we  have  eaten  together,"  chimed  in  Mr.  Monti,  "  and 
I  think  we  always  have  some  little  word  to  say  for 
my  country.  Mr.  Longfellow  spoils  me." 

"  Not  at  all,';  interrupted  the  poet.  "  I  speak 
only  what  comes  from  my  heart." 

Signor  Monti  is  amiable,  charming,  and  deeply 
attached  to  Mr.  Longfellow.  "  Attached  "  is  scarcely 
the  word.  He  adores  him,  and  their  friendship  of 
many  years  is  another  beautiful  sentiment,  bearing 
flowers  that  blossom  anew  with  every  spring-time. 
Besides  Mr.  Monti's  manners,  he  is  a  scholar,  a  lin 
guist,  and  a  man  of  great  talent.  He  has  much  heart 
and  is  capable  of  deep  feeling,  and  in  many  ways  is 


22O  Sketches  Drawn  from  Life. 


exactly  suited  to  the  companionship  of  a  nature  like 
Longfellow's. 

On  our  way  home,  Mr.  Monti  did  nothing  but 
talk  of  him  and  his  rare  quality. 

"  He  is  a  man  in  a  million,"  he  would  say,  "  and 
when  you  have  known  him  during  thirty  years,  as  I 
have,  you  will  appreciate  what  a  great  nature  he  has. 
He  never  changes,  and  every  time  that  I  have  seen 
him  during  all  these  years,  I  greet  him  each  day 
with  equal  pleasure,  and  say  adieu  with  new  feelings 
of  regret.  He  is  a  great  man.  There  is  only  one 
Longfellow  in  all  this  world." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE  FRIEND  OF  HIS  YOUTH. 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms,  that  dart 
Across  the  school  boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart 
That  in  part  are  prophesies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 
And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on  and  is  never  still, 
A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 

And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.7" 

MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

"  There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there; 
There  is  no  fireside,  hovrsoe'er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair." 

RESIGNATION. 

E  determined  to  go  to  Cambridge  this 
morning,  and  once  there,  were  more  than 
repaid  for  our  discomforting  drive,  by 
the  cordial  welcome  of  the  professor. 

The   house   looked  very   stately   among  the  snow- 

[221] 


222  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

capped  trees,  and  the  sloping  lawn,  where  the  grass 
seems  in  summer-time  an  unending  green,  was  cov 
ered  with  a  thick  white  pall.  Coming  up  the  front 
walk,  the  poet  met  us  at  the  door  and  led  the  way 
into  the  delightful  study.  So  bright  was  the  picture 
that  I  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  How  beautiful  are 
these  walls,  the  atmosphere  breathes  rest  and  com 
fort.5' 

"  And, — "  added  the  professor,  "  when  you  come 
the  many  chambers  are  filled  with  welcomes." 

A  bright-faced  gentleman,  evidently  an  in 
valid,  was  drawn  up  before  the  fire,  a  little  to  the 
left,  I  should  say,  and  the  professor  presented 
him  as — 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  Mr.  Greene." 

Mr.  Greene  has  a  charming  smile,  and  looked 
affectionately  at  the  poet  as  he  said  these  words. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  your  old  friend,  and  now 
worse — old  and  helpless.  You  see,"  he  continued, 
"  I  had  so  severe  an  attack  of  rheumatism  some  time 
since,  that  it  has  left  me  in  a  very  lame  condition. 
I  am  obliged  to  sit  here  in  this  chair,  and  cannot 


The  Friend  of  his   Youth.  223 


move  with  ease,  otherwise  I  should  get  up  and  make 
you  a  profound  bow." 

"  We'll  forgive  you,  Greene,"  said  the  professor, 
cheerfully,  "  although  who  can  say  how  much  we 
lose  in  not  witnessing  that  how.  Perhaps sup 
pose  you  try  it  ?" 

The  invalid  was  "  not  to  be  coaxed,"  he  said,  so 
we  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  weather,  Boston,  a 
hundred  things,  until  the  poet  said, 

"  I  want  to  show  you  my  Bodoni." 

He  then  led  the  way  into  the  little  room  open 
ing  out  of  the  study,  and  brought  forth  his  won 
drous  treasures.  One  was  a  superb  volume,  and  to 
day  these  copies  are  most  rare.  Perhaps  no  one  else 
in  America  possessed  a  collection  of  equal  value  and 
beauty.  The  professor  with  a  scholar's  eye,  and 
student's  love  of  ancient  lore,  fondled  it  with  tender 
hands.  He  then  went  over  to  Mr.  Greene,  and  to 
gether  the  two  companions  of  childhood  pored  over 
a  work  that  still  had  power  to  charm. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  witness  the  tender 
deference  of  Mr.  Greene  towards  Longfellow,  but 


224  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

still  more  touching  to  see  the  poet's  regard  for  liis 
invalid  friend.  He  leaned  towards  him  lovingly, 
lifted  the  volumes  with  wondrous  care,  and  placed 
them  in  his  hands  with  all  solicitude,  then  took  them 
away.  "When  one  particularly  interesting  demanded 
closer  attention,  the  two  old  heads  almost  touched 
each  other,  and  the  eyes  that  three-score  of  years 
ago  read  from  the  same  page  at  school,  to-day 
scanned  anew,  but  with  deeper  love  and  interest,  the 
words  that  they  knew  by  heart,  not  by  habit. 

Some  time  passed ;  no  one  spoke,  and  yet  they 
read  on.  Longfellow  laid  his  hand  on  Mr.  Greene's 
shoulder,  the  chair  was  drawn  still  closer,  and  the 
poet's  silver  tresses  almost  touched  his  friend's  sparse 
locks.  The  faces  were  different,  but  a  curious  study. 
The  one,  bright  with  a  youthful  vigor,  was 
pleasantly  flushed  with  a  faint  color,  and  the  una 
bated  interest  that  he  had  in  all  classic  souvenirs 
showed  itself  in  the  eager  look  of  his  eye,  and  the 
ready  movement  of  the  outstretched  hands.  The 
supple  form  bent  itself  with  a  grace  and  facility 
that  belied  his  snowy  locks  and  whitened,  frost-like 


The  Friend  of  his   Youth.  225 

beard.  He  seemed  a  man  strong  not  only  in  intel 
lectual  strength,  but  in  a  physique  that  the  passing 
years  had  in  no  wise  undermined. 

But  the  companion  of  his  youth — how  can  I  best 
describe  him  ?  The  head  once  of  shapely  grace,  and 
crowned  with  masses  of  curling  hair,  had  shrunken 
with  the  march  of  time,  and  the  scanty  locks  gath 
ered  about  the  still  classic  profile  drooped  with  tim 
idity  and  strangeness,  as  if  left  alone  by  their  kin 
dred,  they  abandoned  themselves  to  their  fate.  The 
face  once  the  perfection  of  manly  beauty,  still  re 
tains  an  expression  of  great  sweetness  and  refine 
ment.  The  eyes  blue,  large,  and  very  bright,  smile 
out  with  intelligence  and  genial  warmth,  and  on  the 
broad,  high  forehead  the  fine  wrinkles  are  powerless 
to  hide  the  noble  proportions  and  deeply-marked 
characteristics  of  the  man's  brain  and  intellectual 
power.  The  mouth  is  a  little  drawn,  but  the  lips 
open  pleasantly  and  smi.e  witli  the  slightly  conscious 
expression  of  one  who  had  been  used  to  fascinate. 
The  whole  face  is  sympathetic,  modest  and  gentle, 
but— old. 


226  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

One  would  think  him  Longfellow's  senior  by  a 
great  deal,  yet  the  poet  first  saw  the  light  of  day 
when  Mr.  Greene's  mother  was  a  blushing  bride,  and 
many  years  after  his  loved  friend  came  into  the 
world. 

In  youth  however,  they  were  fast  allies,  and  M  . 
Greene — whose  name  I  might  give  in  full  as  Georp 
W.  Greene — is  the  grandson  of  the  great  Geneial 
Greene,  and  has  since  become  widely  known  as  a 
historian  and  a  very  able  writer. 

The  professor  looked  up  as  the  last  page  was 
turned  by  his  friend  and  said : 

"  How  natural  it  seems  for  us  to  look  over  these 
old  things  once  more.  Do  you  remember  such,  or 
such  a  thing  (referring  to  their  early  life),  and  how 
happy  it  would  have  made  me  could  I  ever  even 
dreamed  myself  the  possessor  of  such  a  treasure  as 
this  ?» 

Greene  nodded,  and  then  seeing  that  we  were  sit 
ting  unoccupied,  he  said  quickly  to  the  professor, 

"  You  know  how  1  love  to  go  over  anything  with 
you,  but  see — your  guests  must  find  us  strangely  ob- 


The  Friend  of  his   Ycnth.  227 

livious,  and  we  have  been  neglectful  of  them  for  a 
long  time." 

1  protested,  that  instead,  nothing  could  have  given 
us  greater  pleasure  than  to  listen  to  their  remarks, 
and  the  talk  on  the  "  Bodoni "  was  instructive  as 
well  as  entertaining.  Mr.  Greene  sat  very  quietly 
looking  out  on  the  already  fading  twilight,  and  the 
poet,  with  rny  husband  lit  a  cigarette  and  commenced 
a  conversation  on  Italy  and  its  wondrous  wealth  of 
art,  and  artistic  souvenirs  ;  with  reference  to  different 
countries  he  said  : 

"We  all  like  France,  but  we  love  Italy.  My 
many  visits  to  '  The  Eternal  City '  never  sufficed  for 
all  that  I  wished  to  learn,  and  each  time  seemed  more 
incomplete.  Eome  is  inexhaustible  in  all  that  appeals 
to  the  mind  of  the  student,  and  the  sight  of  her  seven 
hills  as  I  came  into  the  city  used  to  make  my  heart 
throb  with  strange  feelings  of  awe  and  pleasure.  I 
hope  to  return  there  some  day,  perhaps  soon  maybe 
this  coming  summer." 

We  then  entered  into  a  general  conversation  on 
Italy,  and  my  husband  recalled  souvenirs  of  Yerona, 


228  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 


one  of  the  most  historical  and  splendid  of  all  her  cities. 
The  professor  spoke  with  beautiful  sentiment  on  the 
ancient  landmarks,  and  said  : 

"  That  it  was  peculiarly  interesting  to  lovers  of 
the  antique.  The  tombs  of  the  Scaligeri,  with  their 
wondrous  architecture,  the  historic  church  of  San 
Zeno,  and  above  all,  the  superb  Coliseum  or  amphi 
theatre  that  stands  up  a  glory  of  the  past  in  miracu 
lous  preservation,  and  an  honor  to  the  present  genera 
tion  of  Italy.  I  never  tired  of  Verona,"  he  said. 

"  And  the  tomb  of  Eomeo  and  Juliette?"  I  inter 
rupted. 

"  I  did  not  see  it,"  he  answered,  "although  I  saw 
the  old  palace  near  Piazza  delle  Erbe,  with  the  in 
scription,  l  Qui  erano  le  case  del  Capuletti  ed  e  Mon- 
tecchi '  (Here  were  the  houses  of  the  Capulets  and 
Montagues)." 

"  I  will  send  you  the  photograph,"  said  my  hus 
band,  "  it  gives  a  very  good  idea  of  the  old  tomb, 
and  although  the  place  is  somewhat  distant  from  the 
so-named  '  Palazzo  Capuletti,'  it  is  in  a  pretty  spot. 
You  go  underagrapevined  trellis,  and  at  the  foot  of  a 


The  Friend  of  his   Youth.  229 

fine  old  garden  you  turn  to  the  right,  where  you  follow 
the  walk  that  leads  up  to  the  open  door  of  the  tomb  or 
chapel.  Here  Juliette  is  supposed  to  be  buried  beside 
her  Romeo,  and  numerous  inscriptions  testify  to  the 
immortal  love  of  these  two  scions  of  Veronese  nobility, 
The  top  or  upper  part  of  the  tomb  has  worn  away,  and 
it  now  has  the  appearance  of  an  empty  casket.  The 
form  is  still  perfect ;  the  arches  above  the  vault  are 
time-eaten  and  marked  with  sure  decay.  The  sides 
of  the  stone  bear  faint  signs  of  carved  memorials,  and 
some  ancient  withered  wreaths  in  jetted  wire  have 
hung  faithful  to  their  trust,  who  knows  how  long? 
There  are  always  fresh  flowers  upon  the  tomb,  and 
such  numbers  of  cards  of  visitors  from  every  clime, 
that  the  place  has  a  strangely  alive  look." 

The  professor  was  deeply  interested,  and  re 
marked  : 

"  Yes,  Shakespeare  immortalized  two  lovers,  and 
I  regret  that  I  did  not  visit  the  spot.  I  will  be  de 
lighted  to  have  the  picture.  It  is  kind  in  you  to 
give  it  me,  and  I  shall  always  keep  it  as  a  souvenir  of 
a  sad  but  grand  old  tale." 


230  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

A  lady  then  came  into  the  study,  and  the  poet 
introduced  Mrs.  Greene.  She  was  the  wife  of  the 
historian,  and  was  so  pleasing  that  one  could  not  help 
being  favorably  impressed  with  her.  She  cordially 
extended  her  hand,  at  the  same  time  looking  me  full 
in  the  face  with  clear,  frank  eyes,  and  a  smiling  mouth 
that  made  her  few  words  of  welcome  doubly  agree 
able.  She  seemed  a  woman  of  straightforward  at 
tributes,  and  infinite  sympathy  of  character  and  man 
ner.  The  word  u  help-meet "  came  constantly  in  my 
mind  as  I  saw  her,  and  watched  her  loving,  wifely 
attention  to  her  husband,  and  how  she  anticipated 
even  his  words,  when  his  speech  became  energetic 
and  commanding.  She  joined  our  circle  with  ad 
mirable  ease,  but  before  long  the  announcement  of 
dinner  put  a  temporary  veto  on  our  conversation,  and 
all  arose  to  meet  later  at  the  hospitable  board. 

First  of  all  Professor  Longfellow  thought  of  his  old 
friend,  and  he  went  nimbly  up  with  the  ease  of  five- 
and-thirty,  to  offer  him  his  arm.  Mr.  Greene  took  it 
with  a  friendly  smile,  and  together  they  started  for 
the  dining-room. 


TiL'j  Friend  of  Ids   Youth.  231 

I  could  not  help  noticing  the  tenderness  with 
which  the  poet  guided  his  invalid  guest,  nor  the 
touching  picture  they  made  together  as  they  walked 
arm-in-arm  through  the  soft  harmonious  rooms ! 
The  warm  fire-light  and  richer  glow  of  the  waxen 
tapers  falling  on  their  aged  heads,  illumined  the 
form  of  tha  one,  and  cast  flickering  shadows  over  the 
countenance  of  the  other. 

Time  had  changed  the  outer  man,  but  the  fast, 
firm  friendship  whose  bonds  were  knit  in  early 
youth,  had  gone  on  through  three-score  of  years, 
thickening  and  strengthening,  until  its  ligaments  and 
fibers  were  cemented  together,  as  are  the  roots  of 
strong  forest  trees,  that  impervious  to  the  shocks  of 
wind,  hail  rain  storm  and  tempest,  only  stand  more 
firmly  as  the  centuries  go  on,  immutable  as  only  are 
immovable  things,  unchangeable  as  the  great  laws  of 
nature,  and — a  friendship  like  theirs. 

They  walked  slowly  through  to  the  library  and 
hall,  and  from  there  to  the  dining-room.  Longfellow, 
attentive  before,  was  doubly  so  at  table.  His  watch 
ful  eyes  never  left  Mr.Greene's  face,  and  the  daintiest 


232  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

morsels,  the  most  savory  bits,  speedily  found  their 
way  to  his  friend's  plate,  and  whether  or  no,  he  was 
bound  to  make  an  effort  to  eat.     It  was  impossible  to 
resist   the   poet's   cheery  voice,  first   remarking  this 
thing,  then  urging  that,  all  the  time  keeping  up  the 
most  positive  belief   that  Mr.  Greene  must  eat  well 
and   heartily  if   he  wished   to  please  his  family  and 
friends  and  regain  strength.     He  was  unwearying  in 
his  attentions,  yet  they  were  so  delicately  tendered, 
and   with    such  unobtrusive   mien,  that   Mr.  Greene 
could   never  have  thought  that  he  was  an   invalid. 
He  was  merely  a  dear  friend    received  with   open 
arms,  and  treated  to  the  best  the  house  afforded,  as 
should  be  an  honored  and  cherished  guest. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  Longfellow  in 
this  guise,  and  if  pleased  before  with  his  rare  sweet 
ness  and  simplicity  of  manner,  I  was  even  more 
touched  to-day  to  witness  this  tender  regard  of  an  old 
friend,  and  the  exquisite  frankness  with  which  he 
showed  his  pleasure  in  his  society.  He  could  not  do 
enough  for  him,  and  during  the  whole  evening  his 
face  glowed  with  contentment  and  real  happiness, 


The  Friend  of  his    Youth.  233 

while  his  voice  rang  out  with  admirable  clearness,  and 
his  speech  held  the  happy  cadences  of  one  who  holds 
sympathetic  converse  with  a  congenial  companion. 

After  dinner,  we  adjourned  to  the  lovely  parlor 
and  had  coffee.  The  room  was  beautifully  lit  up, 
and  a  generous  tire  of  solid  wood  roared  up  in  the 

o 

great  fire-place,  startling  the  flecks  of  soot  from  their 
crannies,  and  reflecting  a  hundred  lights  on  the  pol 
ished  brass  andirons,  and  near  the  chimney-place  on 
every  bright  object  that  timidly  dwelt  in  the  vicinity. 
Long  we  sat  there  in  light  and  comfort.  The  wind 
howled  without,  but  it  could  not  penetrate  within  the 
walls  of  the  good  old  Craigie  mansion. 

The  professor  had  drawn  Mr.  Greene's  chair  near 
the  fire,  and  he  threw  himself  in  an  attitude  of 
supreme  grace  in  a  corner  of  a  sofa  to  the  left  of  the 
chimney. 

There  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand  in 
a  favorite  position,  he  sat  talking  with  his  friend,  and 
the  hum  of  their  voices  was  a  pleasant  accompani 
ment  to  the  charming  softness  of  the  apartment,  the 
crackle  of  the  fire,  and  the  distant  soughing  of  the 


234  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

night  wind.  One  could  easily  rest  under  the  spell  of 
the  moment,  and  fancy  it  all  a  glowing  "  tableau 
vivant." 

The  prospect  of  a  long,  cold  drive  into  Boston 
suddenly  dispelled  my  dreaming,  and  the  rest  of  the 
evening  held  the  one  disagreeable  fact  of  being 
obliged  to  leave  so  much  warmth  and  comfort,  and 
go  out  into  the  night ;  a  rude  awakening  after  so 
delightful  a  visit. 

As  we  went  back  into  the  study  before  going 
away,  the  professor  turned  to  a  superb  bust  in  white 
marble  that  stood  on  a  table  in  front  of  a  window, 
and  said  patting  the  cold,  glittering  stone  : 

"Did  you  not  recognize  it?  This  is  my  friend 
Greene.  Who  would  think  that  this  seemingly 
strong  man  is  intended  for  the  one  that  we  have  just 
left ;  and  it's  his  image,"  said  he,  going  on  enthusias 
tically,  "  it  looks  just  exactly  "—a  little  sadly—"  as  he 
^id—then,  when  this  was  taken.  Cher  Greene," 
said  he  tenderly.  Then  he  looked  again  at  the 
white  marble  that  gleamed  with  singular  life  and 
persistent  fascination.  It  was  so  fair  that  in  contrast 


The  Friend  of  his   Youth.  235 

I  thought  of  "  The  Haven,"  and  said  unconsciously, 
"  Take  your  form  from  out  ray  heart,  quit  the  bust 
above  my  door." 

Longfellow  started  and  looked  up  quickly. 

*'  Yes,"  said  he,  "  but  the  meaning  is  different— 
the  words  in  this  case  should  be  'ne'er  take  your 
form  from  out  my  heart,'  and  I  am  not  speaking  to 
a  raven,  but  to  my  dear  and  time-honored  friend. 
Apropos  of  £  The  Eaven,'  what  a  great  poem  it  is, 
and  how  sadly  realistic.  How  typical  of  the  life  of 
its  unhappy  author.  I  think  of  it  many  times,  and 
know  it  by  heart  as  who  does  not?  but  I  also  think 
of  the  great  talent  lost  in  the  sudden  quenching  of 
that  young  life,  and  regret  the  untimely  death  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  as  one  must  the  loss  of  a  real  genius 
to  the  world  of  letters.  He  was  a  true  poet." 

The  kind  word  ever  on  his  tongue  for  a  brother 
writer,  as  usual  in  this  case  was  not  wanting.  We 
had  no  more  time  for  talking  however,  as  the  night 
was  really  wearing  away.  Saying  au  revoir,  we 
went  out,  thanking  again  and  again,  our  amiable  host 
for  the  delightful  evening  that  we  had  passed. 


236  The  Friend  of  his   Youth. 

Musing  once  more  I  looked  at  the  bust  and  the 
lines  yet  again  came  into  my  head. 

"  And  the  lamp  light  o'er  him  streaming,  cast  his 
shadow  on  the  floor."  There  was  the  room ;  there 
was  the  "cushion's  velvet  lining;"  there  were  the 
"  volumes  quaint  and  curious,"  of  forgotten  lore ; 
there  was  everything  to  recall  the  poem,  yet  Poe 
never  could  have  had  such  a  study  as  that.  How 
rich  the  imagination  must  have  been,  that  could 
paint  so  exact  a  picture.  Going  over  it  in  my  mind 
it  seemed  a  prophecy  of  that  very  chamber,  and  the 
tragic  scene  that  cast  a  troubled  dream  over  the  life 
of  another  poet,  who  vainly  wept  his  "  Lost  beloved." 
I  kept  saying  the  lines  over  to  myself,  and  they  sad 
dened  me.  I  remembered  the  fate  of  the  young 
wife,  and  thought  how  her  husband  must  have  said, 
"  And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow,  shall  be 
lifted — nevermore." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE  LAST  BRANCH  OF  LILACS. 

u  Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 

The  winds  like  anthems  roll; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 
Singing  'Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,   Pray.' 

"  And  the  hooded  clouds  like  friars 
Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 
And  patter  their  doleful  prayers 
But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain." 
MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOB  THE  DYING  YEAR, 

"  What  men  call  death  cannot  break  off  this  task  which 
is  never  ending:  consequently  no  period  is  set  to  my  being, 
and  I  am  eternal.  I  lift  my  head  boldly  to  the  threatening 
mountain  peaks,  and  to  the  roaring  cataract,  and  to  the 
storm-cloud,  swimming  iu  the  fire-sea  overhead,  and  say  ;I 
am  eternal  and  defy  your  power!  Break,  break  over  me! 
and  thou  Earth  and  thou  Heaven,  mingle  in  the  wild  tumult! 
And  ye  Elements,  foam  and  rage,  and  destroy  this  atom  of 


238  The  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs. 

dust,  this  body  which  I  call  mine!  My  will  alone,  with  its 
fixed  purpose,  shall  hover  brave  and  triumphant  over  the 
ruins  of  the  universe;  for  I  have  comprehended  my  destiny; 
and  it  is  more  durable  than  yel  It  is  eternal,  and  I  who 
recognize  it  am  eternal." 

HYPERION,  page  140. 


LOOKED  over  my  journal  to-day  in  a 
strangely  interested  fashion.  Since  com 
mencing  it,  I  have  seen  the  poet  a  great 
many  times,  and  all  that  I  have  written 
seems  tame  compared  with  his  real  worth.  He  has 
been  too  ill  of  late  to  receive  his  accustomed  visit 
ors.  I  spent  the  twenty-eighth  of  last  December  at 
Cambridge  by  special  invitation,  and  was  delighted 
to  find  him  in  looks  the  negative  of  ill-health.  He 
had  lost  his  color,  but  the  unusual  paleness  did  not 
make  him  appear  unwell.  I  must  say  that  I  never 
have  enjoyed  a  visit  so  much,  and  he  was  so  remark 
ably  bright  and  vivacious.  He  talked  with  great 
animation,  and  questioned  me  on  my  recent  visit 
abroad. 

"  It  is  not  yet  decided,"  said  he,  "  whether  I  am 
to  go  to  Europe  this  year  or  not.     I  would  like  to 


The  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs.  239 

ever  so  much,  but  I  don't  know.     It  is  a  long  way 
from  home  ;   still  we  shall  see." 

He  then  spoke  of  his  recent  illness. 

"  In  my  life-time,"  said  he,  "  I  never  have  suffered 
so  much.  I  had  at  first  (about  three  months  ago) 
an  attack  of  vertigo,  that  lasted  forty-eight  hours, 
and  after  that  I  was  kept  perfectly  quiet  in  a  dark 
ened  room.  It  seemed  as  if  I  never  would  get 
well,  and  even  now  I  can  only  see  my  friends  for 
a  little  while ;  I  cannot  write ;  I  cannot  read,  and 
must  avoid  the  slightest  excitement.  But  you,  chere 
Pandora,  how  have  you  'been?  tell  me  all  about 
yourself." 

When  I  had  finished  he  said, 

"  What,  writing,  and  about  me  ?  Well,  I  must 
hear  it  all ;  so  let  us  begin  at  once." 

Then,  in  spite  of  my  fears  that  it  might  tire  him, 
he  entered  as  usual  with  hearty  interest  into  my 
work.  The  morning  passed  away,  and  when  lunch 
eon  time  came  he  said, 

"  Why,  I  am  really  hungry !  That  is  a  good 
sign." 


240  The  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs. 

As  we  sat  down  to  table  he  added,  "  This  is  like 
old  times.  I  feel  so  well  to-day,  and  I  am  going  to 
make  tea  just  as  the  first  time  when  you  came  to  see 
me.  Alice,"  turning  to  his  daughter,  "  see  how  well 
I  am.  It  does  me  good  to  have  company,  and  I 
really  think  that  in  your  anxiety  you  have  made  a 
prisoner  of  me  far  too  long.  I  know  that  as  soon  as 
I  commence  going  about  and  living  in  the  old  way,  I 
shall  feel  far  better." 

He  talked  a  great  deal,  and  really  seemed  any 
thing  but  ill — or  I  should  sav,  a  convalescent.  We 

O  v  ' 

went  over  the  old  study  again,  and  he  showed  me  a 
quantity  of  new  things,  also  a  splendid  painting  that 
was  on  an  easel  in  the  Martha  Washington  room,  and 
a  very  large  steel  engraving  of  himself,  just  made. 

It  was  unusually  large.  He  opened  the  sheet  and 
said, 

"  You  see  all  this  paper — they  try  to  make  a  big 
man  of  me  but  the  head,"  pointing  to  it,  "  the  head 
is  rather  small,"  and,  with  a  little  laugh,  "very  natu 
ral." 

How  glad  I  was  to  see  some  of  his  old  humor ! 


TJic  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs.  241 

He  was  quite  gay  and  cheerful ;  he  seemed  like  a 
school-boy  home  for  his  holiday,  and  spoke  of  his 
plans  for  getting  well  immediately.  The  afternoon 
wore  away,  and  still  we  lingered. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  turning  again  to  his  daugh 
ter,  "  how  well  I  am,  and  how  it  brightens  me  up  to 
see  my  friends.  I  think  I  must  protest  against  doc 
tors  and  do  only  what  pleases  me ;  then  I  shall  speed 
ily  be  cured." 

At  five  o'clock  we  took  our  leave.  The  day  had 
been  remarkably  fine,  and  the  usually  cold  December 
sun  was  setting  with  some  warmth.  The  professor 
started  to  accompany  us  to  the  piazza,  when  he  was 
called  back. 

"  Not  without  your  cloak  papa,"  said  Miss  Long 
fellow  tenderly  ;  so  back  he  went  half  fretfully. 

"  I  cannot  imagine,"  said  he  irritably,  "  that  one 
could  take  cold  in  such  a  short  time ;  however  " — 
helplessly — "  I  must  do  as  they  say,  I  suppose." 

Then  he  put  on  his  mantle  and  came  outside. 
He  walked  down  the  step,  put  us  into  the  carriage, 
and  with  a  cheerful  au  revoir,  we  reiterated  our 


242  The  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs. 

aclieux.  I  promised  to  come  again  very  soon,  and 
the  last  thing  I  saw  as  we  went  down  the  avenue 
was  the  gleam  of  his  snowy  hair,  and  the  supple 
grace  of  his  cloaked  form,  as  he  leaned  against  the 
doorway.  He  kissed  his  hand  in  courtly  adieu  and 
watched  us  out  of  sight,  with  cavalier-like  grace, 
raising  his  hat  a  second  time  at  the  last  moment  with 
a  sweet  and  friendly  smile.  We  were  well  out  of 
the  grounds  when  I  remembered  to  have  forgotten 
something ;  I  wished  to  return.  So  we  retraced  our 
steps.  The  professor  had  not  yet  entered  the  draw 
ing-room,  but  stood  in  his  antechamber  looking  at 
some  piece  of  statuary. 

He  started  on  seeing  us  but  said,  "  I  hope  you 
have  omitted  something  that  will  keep  you  some 
time  to  arrange." 

"  No,"  said  I,  hastily,  "  only  a  question."  We 
then  spoke  a  few  words,  and  I  turned  to  go. 

He  shook  hands  with  us  again,  and  said,  with  a 
kindly  look,  "  I  will  not  say  good-by< 


Wenn  Menschen  auseinander  gehen 

So  sagen  Sie  Auf  Wiederselm!    Auf  Weidersehn !" 


The  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs.  243 


Then  we  really  went  away.  He  did  not  come  to  the 
door,  because  he  had  not  his  cloak.  I  promised 
myself  the  honor  of  soon  coming  again  to  see  him. 
"I  wish,"  said  he  cheerfully,  "that  I  were  well 
enough  to  drive  out.  It  seems  as  if  it  would  do  me 
a  world  of  good,  but  I  dare  not  try  it  yet  awhile, 
I  suppose,"  with  a  little  sigh,  "  I  must  be  patient." 

This  was  the  twenty-eighth  of  December.  A 
multitude  of  cares  have  prevented  me  keeping  my 
promise,  but  I  have  been  going  over  my  journal 
thoroughly.  With  painful  exactitude  I  call  to  mind 
my  last  visit  to  Cambridge,  and  the  many  happy 
hours  that  I  have  spent  in  the  poet's  society.  When 
I  go  again  it  will  be  near  spring-time,  and  perhaps  as 
before,  I  shall  carry  away  a  branch  from  the  old 
lilac-bush.  It  is  nearly  time  for  them ;  this  is  the 
twenty-fourth  of  March. 

I  left  my  writing,  but  an  hour  and  a-half  later 
thought  of  returning  to  it.  I  had  barely  seated  my 
self  at  my  table  when  the  bell  rang.  A  few  mo 
ments  later,  my  husband  came  to  me  with  a  white 
face.  Looking  at  me  sadly,  he  said, 


244  The  Last  Branch  of  Lilacs. 

"  Your  visit  dear,  was  really  tlie  last.  Longfellow 
is  dead." 

He  died  as  he  always  predicted  he  would — just 
"  in  sight  of  another  May." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"ULTIMA  THULE." 

"Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And  in  dying  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time." 

A  PSALM  OP  LIFE. 

"Take  them,  O  Death!  and  bear  away 

Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  ownl 
Thine  image  stamped  upon  this  clay 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  I 

Take  them,  O  Grave !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves. 

Take  them,  O  great  Eternity ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust." 

SUSPIRIA, 


246  Ultima    Thule. 


HE  morning  of  March  twenty-sixth  broke 
fair  and  smiling,  and  the  sun  shone  until 
near  noon.     Then  as  if  in   communion 
with  thousands  of  saddened  hearts,  its  face 
was  veiled.     At  three  o'clock  the  winds   rose   high 
with  sobbing  eloquence,  and  stirred  the  old  trees  about 
Harvard  with  a  desolate  rustle.     Appleton   Chapel 
was  filled  with  mournful  faces  and  weeping  friends, 
called  together  to   pay  the  last   earthly  tribute   of 
homage    to   the    distinguished   dead.     While    their 
prayers  re-echoed  in  the  holy  sanctuary,  the  family  of 
the  poet,  and  the  relatives  and  intimate  friends,  fol- 
owed  his  remains  to  Mount  Auburn  Cemetery.     As 
they  left  the  house  the  face  of  nature  grew  dark,  and 
the  storm-clouds  rent  their  folds.     A  misty  fall  of 
snow  with  tenderness,  as  if   heaven  were  grieving 
silently,  gently  shed  its  flakes  upon  the  dreary  earth. 
It  was  a  last  virginal  tribute  from  the  Nature  he  so 
adored,  more  appropriate  to  the  life  whose  purity  equal 
ed  its  own  whiteness,  than  the  colored  passion-flower 
whose  proud  blossoms  decked  his  last  earthly  bier. 
On  a  slight  elevation,  in  full  view  of  the  Charles 


Ultima    T/iule.  247 


river  "  that  in  silence  windest,"  is  the  family  burying 
ground.  There,  with  the  open  face  of  nature,  shall 
the  sun  at  high  noon  pour  her  golden  rays,  and  the 
shades  of  twilight  steal  on  apace.  Homage  from  the 
queen  of  night  shall  succeed  morn's  smiles,  and  in 
the  silent  watch  her  silver  beams  shall  flood  his  last 
resting-place  with  glory.  The  stars  in  their  azure 
firmament  will  nightly  shine  on  their  once  earthly 
brother,  now  immortal  with  themselves.  When  the 
world  is  hushed  to  rest,  the  elements  shall  guard  his 
tomb  keeping  a  proud  and  eternal  watch.  None  can 
dispute  their  right,  none  disregard  their  jealous 
sway. 

Looking  once  again  on  his  honored  grave,  I  saw 
in  the  day's  fading  dawn  two  black-robed  figures; 
with  trembling  hands  and  tearful  eyes,  they  placed  at 
his  head  a  handful  of  flowers— white  calla  lily,  and 
branches  of  the  violet-tinted  heliotrope,  whose  faint 
odor  and  dainty  bloom  he  loved  so  well.  Long  they 
stood  there,  and  then  their  reluctant  steps  took  them 
further  away  from  the  sad  spot.  The  snow-flakes 
wildly  struggling,  tore  through  the  air  as  the  wind 


248  Ultima    Thule. 


increased  in  violence,  and  with  nature's  agonizing 
mournings,  those  who  loved  him  best,  yielded  their 
long,  last  farewell. 

"  So,  when  a  great  man  dies, 

For  years  beyond  our  ken, 
The  light  he  leaves  behind  him  lies 
Upon  the  paths  of  men." 


THE  END. 


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Thrown  on  the  World $i  50  i  Brownie's  Triumph $i  50 


A  Bitter  Atonement 

Love  Works  Wonders 

Evelyn's  Folly. 


Lady  Darner's  Secret     .... 
A  Woman's  Temptation... 

Repented  at  Leisure 

Between  Two  Loves 

Peerless  Cathleen 


The  Forsaken  Bride i  50 

His  Other  Wife...  ..   i 


50 


Nick  Whiffles i  50 


Lady  Leonore 

The  Grinder  Papers i  50 

Faithful  Margaret ...  i  50 

Curse  of  Everleigh i  50 


Artemas    Ward. 

Complete  Comic  Writings — With  Biography,  Portrait,  and  50  illustrations §i  50 

Charles     ^  ickens. 

Dickens'  Parlor  Table  Album  of  Illustrations —with  descriptive  text £2  50 

M.    M.    Pomeroy    ("Brick'*). 


Sense.     A  serious  book $i  50 

Gold  Dust.         Do i  50 

Our  Saturday  Nights i  50 


Nonsense.     (Aco    ic  book) $i  50 

Brick-dust.  Do.  i  50 

Home  Harmonies i  50 


Ernest    Kenan's     French    Wcrka. 

The  Life  of  Jesus.     Translated.. ..$i  75  I   The  Life  of  St.  Paul.   Transhted.fti  75 

Lives  of  the  /ipostles.     Do.     ...   i  75  |   The  Bible  in  India— By  Jacolliot..  2  oo 

G.    W.    Carleton. 

Our  Artist  in  Cuba,  Peru,  Spain,  and  Algiers— 150  Caricatures  of  travel $1  co 

Miscellaneous    Publications. 

The  Children's  Fairy  Geography — With  hundreds  of  beautiful  illustrations — $2  50 

Hawk-eyes— A  comic  book  by  "The  Burlington  Ha wkeye  Man."     Illustrated i  50 

Among  the  Thorns — A  new  novel  by  Mrs.  Mary  Lowe  Dickinson i  50 

Our  Daughters —A  talk  with  mothers,  by  Marion  Harland,  author  of  ''Alone,". .  50 

Redbirds  Christmas  Story — An  illustrated  Juvenile.     By  Mary  J.  Holmes   50 

Carleton's  Popular  Readings — Edited  by  Mrf.  Anna  Randall-Diehl i  50 

The  Culprit  Fay — Joseph  Rodman  Drake's  Poem.     Witi  TOO  illustrations 2  oo 

L'Assoramoir — English  Translation  from  Zola's  famous  French  novel. i  co 

Parlor  Amusements — Games,  Tricks,  and  Home  Amusements,  by  F.  Bellew. ..  i  co 

Love   [L'Amour] — Translation  from  Michelet's  famous  French  work i  50 

^Voman  [La  Femme].            Do.                     Do.                       Do i  50 

Verdant  Green— A  racy  English  college  Story.     With  200  comic  illr  ,tratirtns. ..  i  co 

Solid  for  Mulhooly — The  Sharpest  Political  Satire  of  the  Day i  oo 

A  Northern  Governess  at  the  Sunny  South— By  Professor  J.  H.  Ingraham. .  i  50 

Laus  Veneris,  and  ot'er  Poems — By  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne i  50 

Birds  of  a  Feather  Flock  Together— By  Edward  A.  Sothern,  the  nctor i  oo 

Beatrice  Cenci — from  the  Italian  novel,  with  Guide's  celebrated  portrait i  50 

Morning  Glories — A  charming  collection  ( f  Chi'dren's  stories.  By  Lou:sa  Alcct.  i  co 

Some  Women  of  To-day —A  novel  by  Mrs.  Dr.  Win.  H.  White i  50 

From  New  York  to  San  Francisco — By  Mrs.  Frank  Leslie.     Illustrated i  50 

Why  Wife  and  I  Quarreled — A  Poem  by  author  '•'  Betsey  and  I  nre  out." i  oo 

West  India  Pickles — A  yacht  Cruse  in  the  Tropics.     By  W.  P.  Tulboys i  co 

Threading  My  Way— The  Autobiograpy  of  Robert  Dale  Owen i  50 

Debatable  Land  between  this  Word  and  Next — Robert  Dale  Owen 2  oo 

Lights  and  Shadows  of  Spiritualism — By  D.  D.  Home,  the  Medium 2  oo 

Yachtman's  Primer — Instructions  for  Amateur  Sailors.     By  Warren 50 

The  Fall  of  Man — A  Darwinian  Satire,  by  author  of  "  New  Gospel  of  Peace." ...  50 

The  Chronicles  of  Gotham— A  New  York  Satire.      Do.                    Do.             ...  25 

Tales  from  the  Operas — A  co'lection  of  stories  based  upon  the  Opera  plots i  co 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen's  Etiquette  Book  of  tlvj  best  Fashionable  Society.  .   . .  i  co 

Self  Culture  in  Conversation,  Letter- Writing,  and  Oratory i  oo 

Love  and  Marriage— A  book  for  young  people.     By  Frederick  Saunders i  oo 

Under  the  Rose — A  Capital  book,  by  the  author  of  ''  East  Lynne," i  co 

So  Dear  a  Dream — A  novel  by  Miss  Grant,  author  of  "The  Sun  Maid  " i  oo 

Give  me  thine  Heart— A  Capital  new  Love  Story  by  Roe i  oo 

Meeting  Her  Fate — A  charming  novel  by  the  author  of  "  Aurora  Fioyd  " i  oo 

i   The  New  York  Cook-Book — Book  of  Domestic  Receipts.     By  Mrs.  Astor i  oo 


G.    IV.     CARLETON    &    CO.'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


Miscellaneous 

Dawn  to  Noon — By  Violet  Fane..$i  50 
Constance's  Fate.  Do.  . .  i  50 

How  to  "Win  in  Wall  Street i  oo 

Poems— By  Mrs.  Bloomfield  Moore,   i  50 

A  Bad  Boy's  First  Reader 10 

John  Swinton's  Travels 25 

Sarah  Bsrnhardt — Her  Life 25 

Arctic  Travel — Isaac  I.  Hayes i  50 

Colleg3  Tramps — F.  A.  Stokes i  50 

H.  M.  S.  Pinafore— The  Play 10 

A  Steamer  Book— W.  T.  Helmuth.  i  oo 

Lion  Jack— By  P.  T.  Barnum i  50 

Jack  in  the  Jungle.       Do i  50 

Gospels  in  Poetry— E.  H.  Kimball.  i  50 
Southern  Woman  Story — Pember  75 
Madame  Le  Vert's — Souvenirs  ...  2  oo 

He  and  I — Sarah  B.  Stebbins 50 

Annals  of  a  Baby.       Do 50 


"Works. 

Victor  Hugo— Autobiography $  i 

Orpheus  C.  Kerr—  4  vols.  in  one.. 

Fanny  Fern  Memorials 

Parodies— C.  H.  Webb  (John  Paul). 
My  Vacation —     Do.  Do. 

Sandwiches — Artemus  Ward 

Watchman  of  the  Night...    

Nonsense  Rhymes — W.H.Beckett 


Lord  Bateman— Cruikshank's  111.. 
Northern  Ballads — E.  L.  Anderson 

Beldazzle  Bachelor  Poems 

Me — Mrs.  Spencer  W.  Coe 

Little  Guzzy — John  Habberton. . . . 

Offenbach  in  America 

About  Lawyers — Jeffreson 

About  Doctors —        Do 

Widow  Spriggins — Widow  Bedott. 
How  to  Make  Money — Davies... . 


Sub  Rosa— Chas.  T.  Murray fi  50 

Hilda  and  I — E.  Bedell  Benjamin,    i  50 

Madame — Frank  Lee  Benedict i  50 

Hammer  and  Anvil.        Do. 
Her  Friend  Lawrence.    Do. 


Miscellaneous    Novels. 


30 

50 
A  College  Widow— C.  H.  Seymour    i  50 

Shiftless  Folks — Fannie  Smith i  50 

Peace  Pelican.  Do.  

Prairie  Flower— Emerson  Bennett. 
Rose  of  Memphis— W.  C.  Falkner. 
Price  of  a  Life — R.  Forbes  Sturgis. 
Hidden  Power -T.  H.  Tibbies.... 
Two  Brides— Bernard  O'Reilly  ... 
Sorry  Her  Lot — Miss  Grant 


Two  of  Us  -Calista  Halsey 

Spell-Bound— Alexandre  Dumas.. 
Cupid  on  Crutches— A.  B.  Wood. 

Doctor  Antonio— G.  Ruffini 

Parson  Thome— Buckingham 

Marston  Hall— L.  Ella  Byrd 

Ange — Florence  Marryatt 

Errors  —  Ruth  Carter i  50 

Heart's  Delight— Mrs.  Alderdice..  i  50 

Unmis  akable  Flirtation — Garner  75 

Wild  Oats—  Florence  Marryatt i  50 

Widow  Cherry — B.  L.  Farjeon.,.  75 

Solomon  Isaacs.            Do.          50 

Led  Astray— Octave  Feuillet i  50 

She  Loved  Him  Madly — Borys...  i  50 

Thick  and  Thin — Mery i  50 

So  Fair  yet  False — Chavette i  50 

A  Fatal  Passion — C.  Bernard i  50 

Woman  in  the  Case — B.Turner.,  i  50 

Marguerite's  Journal — For  Girls.,  i  50 

Edith  Murray — Joanna  Mathews..  i  oo 

Doctor  Mortimer — Fannie  Bean...  i  50 

Outwitted  at  Last— S.  A.  Gardner  i  50 

Vesta  Vane— L.  King,  R i   50 

Louise  and  I — C.  R.  Dodge 150 

My  Queen — By  Sandette i  50 

Fallen  among  Thieves — Rayne. ..  i  50 

San  Miniato — Mrs.  Hamilton i  oo 


Ail  For  Her- A  Tale  of  New  York.. $ 

All  For  Him— By  All  For  Her 

For  Each  Other.          Do 

Peccavi—  Emma  Wencler 

Conquered — By  a  New  Author 

Janet — An  English  novel. 


Saint  Leger— Richard  B.  Kimball. 
Was  He  Successful  ?  Do.  . 

Undercurrents  of  Wall  St.  Do.  . 
Romance  of  Student  Life.  Do.  . 
To-Day.  Do.  . 

Life  in  San  Domingo.  Do.     . 

Henry  Powers,  Banker.  Do.  . 
Baroness  of  N.  Y.-Joaquin  Miller 
One  Fair  Woman.  Do. 

Another  Man's  Wife— Mrs.  Hartt 
Purple  and  Fine  Linen — Fawcett. 
Pauline's  Trial — L  D.  Courtney.. 

The  Forgiving  Kiss — M.  Loth 

Flirtation — A  West  Point  novel 

Loyal  into  Death 

That  Awful  Boy 

That  Bridget  of  Ours 

Bitterwood — By  M.  A.  Green 

Phemie  Frost — Ann  S.  Stephens.. 

Charette — An  American  novel 

Fairfax — John  Esten  Cooke 

Hilt  to  Hilt.  Do 

Out  of  the  Foam.          Do 

Hammer  and  Rapier.  Do 

Warwick— By  M.  T.  Walworth 

Lulu.  Do.  .... 

Hotspur.  Do.  

Stormcliff.  Do.  

Delaplaine.  Do.  .... 

Beverly.  Do.  

Kenneth— Sallie  A.  Brock 

Heart  Hungry — Westmoreland .... 

Clifford  Troupe—         Do 

Silcott  Mill— Maria  D.  Deslonde.. 
John  Maribel.                Do. 
Love's  Vengeance 


UNIVERSITY  OF  C  * 


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